


The Greatest Thing You'll Ever Learn

by DreamingAngelWolf



Category: Marvel, Moulin Rouge! (2001), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: #BuckyNat Mini Bang, #BuckyNat Week, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Moulin Rouge! Fusion, Crossover, F/M, Moulin Rouge! AU, Romance, Spy - Freeform, bohemian, no knowledge of Moulin Rouge! necessary, no musical numbers I'm afraid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 19:18:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6484267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingAngelWolf/pseuds/DreamingAngelWolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1899, and Bucky Barnes has become a Bohemian.</p><p>Well – he’s going undercover as one. Working for spymaster Nicholas Fury, Bucky is investigating wealthy Russian Count Vasily Karpov, a man supposedly interested in investing in one of Paris’ most renowned cabarets: La Chambre Rouge. Under the pretext of joining Paris’ latest revolution as a budding young writer, Bucky’s tasked with finding out what the Count is up to. Little do either of them know, they are not the only interested party. Having also heard of Karpov’s misdeeds, Phil Coulson is taking matters into his own hands, and has not only secured himself ownership of La Chambre Rouge, but has billed his best agent, Natasha Romanoff, as its star. Natasha is also attempting to unearth the Count’s true intentions with the club, confident that she can seduce the information out of him for Coulson. However, when a misunderstanding leads to her entertaining a penniless new writer instead, Natasha’s plans soon become complicated.</p><p>As the world of La Chambre Rouge spins in a mad Can Can around them, Bucky and Natasha soon learn that truth, beauty, freedom and love are deeply intertwined with danger and deceit; but the show must go on, whatever the price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Greatest Thing You'll Ever Learn

**Author's Note:**

> This is my second BuckyNat Mini Bang, and - having had a minor breakdown a few hours ago (at 3:40am!) when Word decided to throw away 1000 words of some of the best prose I've ever written, as well as having to write and publish a book at the same time - I can definitely say it's been tougher than last year! But, overall, I am far more pleased with this piece than I am with last year's entry, making all the stress and the tears (yes, tears - I was beyond devastated when I lost all those words) totally worth it!
> 
> Huge, huge thanks to geisterschloss for not only putting up with my random extracts and unhelpful decision making skills, but largely for creating some [absolutely gorgeous artwork](http://geisterschloesser.tumblr.com/post/142394792181/i-had-the-great-pleasure-to-illustrate) for my story, and really bringing together the beauty of the movie with my take on the plot. And on that note, if you haven't seen Baz Luhrmann's _Moulin Rouge!_ , a) don't panic, it's not necessary for this fic, and b) FIND IT AND WATCH IT. It is a feast for the eyes and ears, and one of my absolute favourite jukebox musicals. As such, readers familiar with the film may notice little bits and pieces that I may have *ahem* 'borrowed' here and there... ;-)
> 
> That's all from me - I'm gonna put this up here and then go to bed... And then write an essay later today... X(

_ _

_Paris, 1900_

Bucky glowered at his typewriter, imagining that it would be glowering back at him if it had the ability. Smoke curled lethargically from the end of his cigarette, as grey as the view outside the window, and only marginally more interesting. One of the greatest cities on Earth, he’d been told, full of promise and potential and joie de vivre… Yet there it was, at the start of a brand new century, and everything was covered in ashes and dust. The life Bucky had been living just a few months ago seemed now more like a dream than ever.

“Does it have to be now?” he’d asked Fury when the man came to him with his demand.

“Yes,” had been the curt reply.

“Please, Nick, just a couple more weeks –”

“You’ve had long enough. Paris has moved on. The Russians have moved on. It’s about time you did, too.”

In the decaying present, Bucky sighed and dragged a hand down his face, rubbing at his beard. He need to shave. He needed to change his clothes. He needed to properly shower, rather than standing briefly under the excuse of a tap in the bathroom. He needed…  
He needed to write this goddamn report.

 

 

***

_Paris, 1899_

The room he would be living in for the foreseeable future was exactly that – a room. It had walls, a wooden floor, one door, and one window overlooking the heart of Montmatre, and Bucky thought it wonderfully befitting of a penniless writer.

That didn’t mean he had to like it.

“Anything more lavish, and people would get suspicious,” Fury explained, as a meagre desk was worked through the door. “You think most wanna-be Bohemians get more than this?”

Wincing at the lack of care shown to the poor desk as it was dumped in the middle of the space, Bucky gave a loose shrug to Fury. “When you said I’d be posing as a penniless writer, I didn’t think you were actually leaving me penniless.”

“We’ll help you out when we think you need it,” Fury assured him. “Until then, however, this cover needs to be airtight. If there’s any chance of word getting back to Karpov –”

“Yeah, yeah, I know the drill.” The bed, at least, looked to be a decent size, judging by the way it wasn’t easily fitting through the doorframe. “Just promise you won’t leave me stranded?”

Fury smiled. “Now why would I do that to one of my best agents?”

“Because the World Security Council doesn’t like it when their spymaster goes behind their backs. I’m fully aware of the concept of plausible deniability, Nick.”

With a slight scoff, Fury began buttoning up his overcoat, saying, “Just get me what I need, and I’ll deal with the Council.”

Once the bed had been forced into the room (at the cost of part of the doorframe), Fury took his leave, and Bucky sat himself down in his tiny wooden chair in front of the monstrous typewriter Fury’s team had graciously purchased for him. He wondered how Bohemian writers actually managed to live like this, with barely anything to their name and nothing but inspiration to direct them. As one of Fury’s agents, he’d always had a mission to work towards, people to fall back on and a variety of skills to get him by during downtime. With nothing in his head and only a handful of francs in his suitcase, Bucky was at a loss as to how to begin.

It was at that moment that an unconscious man fell through his roof, quickly followed by a short, thin one bursting in through the door.

“Oh!” the man at the door said, surprised – either by Bucky’s presence or the man hanging by his ankle from a hole in the ceiling, it wasn’t easy to tell. “I’m so sorry, sir – we didn’t think anyone was living here,” he explained, a Brooklyn accent fleetingly grabbing Bucky’s attention.

“Uh –”

“It’s why we chose to rehearse upstairs, just in case something like this happened.”

“What?”

The short man smacked himself on the forehead. “Of course, where are my manners? Steve Rogers,” he said, stepping around the still unconscious blonde and offering a slender hand Bucky’s way. “Bohemian artist and occasional actor. I’m not very good, but my friends need the people.”

“James Barnes,” Bucky said, shaking his hand. He gestured to the elephant in the room. “Is he okay?”

“Clint? He’ll be fine. A bit bruised, maybe, but he’s had worse falls.”

Bucky blinked at him. “This has happened before?”

With a sigh, Steve nodded. “Many times. He’s a narcoleptic.”

“A narco-what?”

“A narcoleptic. He has narcolepsy.”

“Narcolepsy?”

“Mmh. Means he falls asleep without warning. Fine one minute, snoring the next. Real inconvenient.”

“I’ll say,” Bucky muttered, glancing at the hole in his ceiling and not expecting to see three faces staring back at him.

“How is he?” one face with glasses asked, frowning down at Clint’s gently swinging form.

“The hard-of-hearing narcoleptic who just fell unconscious and through a wooden floor?” another, goateed face said. “I’m sure he’s positively manic.”

“This is perfect!” the third face cried. “Just perfect!”

“Calm down, Justin. He’s fine, Bruce,” Steve said, right as whatever was holding Clint suspended in mid-air decided to give way, landing the poor man head-first beside Bucky’s desk. Everyone cringed. (Bucky was thankful for the structural integrity of his floor.)

“Oh sure, he’s just great,” Justin drawled. “I’m sure he’ll be up and back to reading his part in no time!”

“Wow, Bruce,” the second face said, “Justin’s challenging your title of Angriest Bohemian in Paris.”

“Shut up, Stark! We were in the middle of the scene – we can’t just wait around for Barton to regain consciousness! I need to know how it sounds.”

“Well, who’s going to fill in for Clint?” Bruce asked.

“Exactly!” Justin said. “How are we going to find someone –”

“Guys,” Steve said, and pointed to Bucky.

The three Bohemians blinked at him, apparently noticing for the first time that someone else was in the room they observed from above. “Hey, there’s a person,” Stark said. “What are you doing there, person?”

He was wondering what the hell was going on around him, but before he could say as such, Steve answered for him; “His name’s James. He lives here, apparently.”

“But you said no-one was living beneath you,” Justin accused.

With an eye-roll, Steve crouched down next to Clint, saying, “Turns out I was wrong.” To Bucky, he said, “Would you mind helping us?” and when Bucky nodded his head, the deal was sealed.

Upstairs, in a room a little bigger than Bucky’s, a beautifully decorated set dominated the entirety of one wall, depicting a mountainous landscape against a blue sky, with a piano organ and an odd looking contraption sat either side. Clint was deposited on the bed and Bucky hastily thrown into a ‘goatherd’s’ outfit before being situated precariously on top of a ladder and left with a crumpled script. Not a fan of heights to begin with, Bucky honed his attention on remaining upright and watched the group’s performance.

He didn’t quite know what to make of it; as Steve recited, with some semblance of a tune: “The gentle slopes are delightfully animated with the euphoric overtures of melodic genius!” Bruce played a discordant set of notes on the organ, and Stark, manning whatever the bizarre contraption was supposed to be, set off sharp flashes of light and, at one point, a small burst of fire. The looks on his and Steve’s faces were anything but reassuring.

The whole debacle was brought to an abrupt (yet timely) end by Justin screeching “Cut!” He pointed aggressively at Stark, who had continued to play. “What in the world do you call that noise, Stark? I thought you said were an effects specialist!”

“I am. These are my effects.”

“And Bruce, I can’t hear my words over that racket!”

“Wasn’t that why you hired him?”

“What’s wrong with just playing it as a piano – wait. What did you just say?”

Steve looked nervous. “Uh, fellas –”

“I thought the reason you hired us was because you can’t really write and want those ‘words’ of yours disguised by something much more endearing to an audience’s ear.”

“Tony –”

“Oh, I can’t write, huh?” Justin said, and thrust the script at him. “Let’s hear you do better, then!”

Fumbling with the paper, Tony found the line Steve had just recited and scratched his goatee. “The hills are… pregnant… with the… inspiring yet wondrous – no. Um…”

“See?” Justin said, smug. “Not that eas-”

“Shshsh,” Tony said, “you’re wording, stop. The slopes are rambunctious…”

Soon, everyone was in on the act. Bucky listened, mildly astounded, as ever more elaborate and complex phrases were muttered and murmured to replace the one Steve had spoken earlier. Bucky himself was, despite his cover, no great writer, and yet when he’d finally descended the ladder to add his own contribution, the looks on the Bohemians’ faces were so awed that he wondered if he’d said something else instead.

“Say that again,” Steve commanded.

“The hills are alive with the sound of music?”

The hills in the room were silent – until, with a cry of “I’m alive!” Clint woke up.

None of the others appeared to notice, staring still at Bucky. “Okay,” Tony said. “So it would seem Person can write.”

“That was beautiful, James,” Steve said, and Bruce nodded. Justin scowled at them all.

“What’d I miss?” Clint said, stumbling forward.

“The hills are alive with the sound of music.”

“The whats are what?”

“The hills are alive with the sound of music!” Justin shouted.

Clint’s face lit up in a grin. “Hey, that’s pretty good,” he said, clapping Justin on the shoulder. “Nice one, Justin.”

“Oh, it wasn’t me, you idiot,” Justin snapped, shrugging off Clint’s hand. “He did it.”

“You did?” Clint said, seeing Bucky for the first time. He grinned. “Well then same to you, my friend,” he repeated, stepping forwards. “Great line. I’m Clint, it’s nice to meet –” The cable that had stopped Clint’s fall earlier was still wrapped around his feet, a fact they only realised after he’d tripped over it and planted his face into Bucky’s crotch. “Not like that!” he cried, hurriedly straightening himself and moving away. “That wasn’t nice. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with your – not that I could – or that I was – I’m sure your – ahem.” He stood awkwardly at Bucky’s side, face red. “Can’t be narcoleptic on cue, huh?”

“Hey, Justin,” Tony said, mercifully drawing everyone’s attention to him. Pointing between Justin and Bucky, he suggested, “You and Person should write together.”

Bucky caught Justin’s eye. “Oh, I don’t know –”

Tony looked at Bucky. “You can write, yes?”

“Yes –”

“Then it’s settled.”

And it was, but not in the way Tony meant it – Bucky became, without being able to do anything about it, their sole writer, after Justin decided he was neither appreciated nor wanted and promptly left.

“Fellas,” Steve said, following a brief toast to Bucky’s new position, “we’re definitely on the right tracks to getting this production going. I can feel it.”

“Hear, hear.”

“But what about Coulson?” Bruce said. “We still have to convince him to take the script, and if it’s going to be written from scratch –”

“Person. How fast can you write?” Tony asked, and Bucky balked under the sudden scrutiny.

“Not very,” he admitted, feeling slightly guilty when their faces collectively fell. “And it’s Bucky.”

“Wait,” Clint said, “we do have one option.” They all leaned in. “Natalia. I say we dress him up in something expensive, get him some ‘alone time’ with her, and let him dazzle her with his incredible poetry so that she can tell Coulson what a great writer he is. Coulson always listens to her. There’s no way this could go wrong.”

“Can you do it?” Steve asked Bucky excitedly.

Unsure if he could even write a play, never mind poetry, Bucky heard himself saying, “I would, but… I’m not very Bohemian.”

Instantly, Steve responded with: “Do you believe in truth?”

Confused, Bucky said, “Yes.”

Tony then asked, “What about beauty?”

“Sure.”

“Freedom?” said Bruce.

“Absolutely.”

And from Clint came “Love?”

Bucky paused. Love was a luxury he’d never afforded himself, solitary as his profession was. That wasn’t to say he’d never dreamed of it, but that was what it would always be. A dream. One he clung to in his darkest moments. “Love is wonderful,” he said, drawing on all the acting and character-building skills he’d ever learnt. “Love is a force of unparalleled strength and power. It’s a universal truth, the most beautiful gift to be given, free from constraints and rules – love is…” He couldn’t believe what he was saying. “Love is everything.”

The four Bohemians shared grins with one another, Clint swiping quickly at his eyes. “He’s perfect,” Steve declared.

Tony rested his hands on Bucky’s shoulders. “You, dear boy, are a true child of the revolution,” he said solemnly, then with a decisive nod announced that another drink was due, an idea received with great enthusiasm. Four shots of a strange, green liquid were haphazardly poured out, with a small cup of green tea for Bruce, and with the passing thought of ‘At least my cover’s working’, Bucky became gracelessly acquainted with the children of the revolution’s electrifying fuel: absinthe.

And so, while under the Green Fairy’s intoxicating spell, the group ventured out to the legendary club, La Chambre Rouge, drunkenly confident that Bucky’s poetry would win over Natalia and Coulson in an instant.

 

 

***

With the evening on the verge of tipping into the spectacle promised on the atmosphere, Count Vasily Karpov surveyed the waiting floor with a cold, critical eye. He was not the kind of man to imagine a scene as something it was not, valuing the present more than he valued the future, or indeed the past – how could one make himself a future if he was not focused on the moment? But, looking at the gleaming floor, and listening to the excited chattering of the men around him, Karpov caught the wisp of a fancy and saw, briefly, his name instead of Phillip Coulson’s lit up on the club’s famous sign.

“Count Karpov, bienvenue au La Chambre Rouge.”

A man in a red tailcoat removed his top hat and bowed slightly. Karpov appreciated the greeting, but answered in English. “Thank you, Monsieur Coulson. I was not expecting to meet you personally until later on in the evening.”

“I make it a point not to keep special guests waiting,” Coulson said, spreading an arm in an invitation for the small party to follow him. “A table has already been set aside for you and your associates. One of our more private booths. It has an excellent view of the dance floor.”

“Then I suspect some of my ‘associates’ will not be sat at it for long.”

Coulson chuckled, and allowed Karpov’s group to arrange themselves in the booth before addressing the Count again. “Before the evening begins, I thought you would be pleased to know that Miss Romanova has agreed to a private meeting once her act is done.”

At the name, Karpov smiled. “You spoke to The Black Widow on my behalf?”

“As soon as I received your request,” Coulson said. “Meeting gentlemen after hours is something she’s used to. What has her excited at the prospect of meeting you is your shared Russian heritage; she’s been away from the Motherland for some time now.”

“Do you not allow her to visit it, Monsieur?”

“On the contrary, the girls can request vacation time whenever they please, and unless we’re low on numbers I’m happy to let them travel – however, Miss Romanova hasn’t once taken a day off. Her loyalty to the club is unshakeable.”

Karpov liked a challenge. “Please send my regards,” he said, “and tell her that I look forward to meeting her in a much more personal setting.”

“Of course, sir.” With a polite smile and a quick nod, Coulson said to the table, “Profitez de votre soiree, messieurs,” and stepped away, fitting his top hat back in place as he disappeared into the crowd.

“He’s eager to please,” Dmitri commented once the club’s owner was gone.

“And why shouldn’t he be?” Leonid said. “He probably wants to stay with his beloved girls if he can. I bet they warm his bed at night.”

Beside him, Arkady scoffed. “Do you not read the papers? He’s the Gentleman of Montmatre, engaged to a cellist in the Orchestre de Paris. Talk like that about him around the women and they’ll rip your dick off before you can say ‘voulez vous coucher avec moi?’.”

Leonid shook his head. “Propaganda,” he said. “Wouldn’t you want people to think that if you worked in a glorified whorehouse?”

At that, Aleksander leant forward, snapping, “Enough. The man’s reputation is what it is, and slandering it will not put Lord Karpov in a favourable light.” He turned to the Count, saying, “Let Monsieur Coulson behave towards you as he will, my Lord. It only means he might attempt to negotiate a higher price if he feels you aren’t being generous enough.”

Reaching for the water jug and a glass, Karpov contemplated how to handle Phillip Coulson. “He will not be a problem,” he said. "If he is, you can deal with him once La Chambre Rouge is mine. It might be in our best interests, however, for you all to behave cordially towards him until then. As Aleksander said, no need to antagonise the man.”

A quiet chorus of “Yes, Lord Karpov,” sounded around the table, and above the dance floor the band began to take up their instruments. Karpov settled back as Aleksander beckoned over a waiter, and turned his thoughts away from Coulson as he awaited the arrival of a particular lady.

 

 

***

La Chambre Rouge was like nothing Bucky could have ever imagined. The dance floor took up the centre of main hall, glossy black and brilliantly polished, while the space around it was covered top to bottom in (as the name suggested) red: hangings, carpet, table cloths and chairs, even some of the lamps. Exotic gold designs with flashes of gemstones outlined the edges of the private booths, richly accentuated by the lights of the great chandeliers and matching the intricate work on the ceiling. But although the hall itself was a sight to behold, it was soon lost to the background when the band started to play and the ladies graced the floor.

They were known as Phillip Coulson’s Silver Hawks, but Bucky was struck dumb by the number of colours spinning before him. The brightest of yellows, pinks, greens, blues, purples, and even more red, and that was just the undersides of their skirts! Girls of all shapes and sizes danced to a fast paced number that could hardly be heard over the roaring of the men who’d come to see them, giving off an energy and exuberance that had Bucky itching to join in the chaos. It was filthy and flamboyant, and it was no time at all before he forgot just how long he’d been there and what he was originally there to do.

Luckily, Steve had the sense to acquire a booth, and eventually pulled Bucky over to a table with the rest of the troupe. “Good news!” he shouted across the table. “I was able to speak with Coulson!”

Bucky remembered then that he was a writer about to seduce a courtesan with his poetry in the hopes that she would convince her boss to hire him to write a play. None of which he’d written. At all. “That’s great!” he called back. “What did he say?”

“He said –”

The music stopped. Almost every light went out. A hush fell over the crowd of men so profound that Bucky thought he’d gone deaf. In the centre of the dance floor, a single red spotlight came to life, shining on a slowly falling cloud of glittering silver confetti and a silhouette perched on a trapeze.

“That’s her,” Steve whispered to Bucky. “The Black Widow.”

The Black Widow – Natalia Romanova. She sat half-bathed in the red light, elegantly poised as the trapeze spun gently. The sequins of her black bodice shimmered and diamonds sparkled at her ears from under curled locks of hair. Her chin was dipped, allowing her long eyelashes to shadow the tops of her cheekbones. Long gloves covered her arms to her elbows, but her legs were bare, her skin alabaster where the spotlight didn’t reach it. She had every man in the room wide-eyed and loose-jawed in an instant; they gazed at her as if she had descended from the literal heavens.

And Bucky was no exception.

“The French are glad to die for love,” she sang, her voice rich and silky and echoing in the still silent hall. “They delight in fighting duels…” No other sound could have prevailed. “But I prefer a man who lives and gives expensive… jewels.”

The lights were brought back on, and a drum beat started up from the bandstand. As the men began cheering the trapeze began to swing in a wide circle, and Natalia leaned backwards, an arm extended, as she passed over their reaching hands. They gathered around her as she was lowered down, almost blocking her from Bucky’s view completely. He could hear her singing, something about diamonds, and occasionally he caught a glimpse of red hair between the top hats and suits – but it was as if she was gone as suddenly as she’d arrived, and Steve’s plan to have him meet her seemed impossible. Everyone wanted to see her. Some of them could probably even afford to. Why on earth would she want anything to do with Bucky?

“Don’t worry,” Steve said across the table, grinning. “You might not see her much now, but after this number, it’ll be just you and her.”

Bucky stared at him. “Just me and her?”

He nodded excitedly. “Yeah – so you can work your magic on her in private! Lyrically, I mean, not – anyway. You’ll be alone. No distractions. Just recite the poems, wow her, and leave.”

“We’ll be alone?”

Steve smirked. “Don’t go getting any ideas,” he said.

“Yeah, you couldn’t afford her,” Tony added from behind him. “None of us could. Not without selling everything we own.”

“Tony –”

“Just saying,” Tony said, and winked. “Go get her, tiger.”

Another cheer went up from the floor, and Bucky looked to see Natalia and Phillip Coulson on a small stage together. She danced around him, playfully snatching at necklaces and strings of jewels that he held out before her. Bucky thought he saw them exchanging words as the music took over, but he didn’t have a chance to watch more closely before he was distracted by his friend.

“Do you need another drink?” Steve asked, standing up before Bucky could say anything. “I’ll get you something real quick, sit tight!”

A quick glance at the stage told him the song and dance number looked to be far from over, and Bucky sat back in his seat, wondering if he was already straying too far from his mission.

 

 

***

“Did Karpov come tonight?” Natasha asked through a smile, her back to Coulson. The music and cheering covered her words, but she knew he’d hear her.

“He did,” Coulson replied.

“Where is he?”

“In one of the booths.” He looked across in to see Steve Rogers walk straight into the Count as he stood up, glass in hand. Whatever he’d been drinking was now splashed all across his white shirt. “On your nine. Steve Rogers is with him, waving a handkerchief.”

They spun around each other, and Natasha snuck a glance the way he’d directed her. Sure enough, the Bohemian artist was patting at a young man’s chest with a handkerchief, and she took as much of the Count in as she could; he looked much younger than his age, and simply yet smartly dressed, possibly to hide how wealthy he was? She had never thought he’d be modest, though, not from the briefing Coulson had given her on him weeks ago. That he was in the company of Steve Rogers was unexpected, too, though that may not necessarily be by choice – that small group of Bohemians could be persistent when they wanted something.

“He’s not like I imagined,” she said as they continued the routine.

“You might change your mind,” Coulson said, beckoning to the other dancers. They formed a circle around him and Natasha, raising their dresses to form a curtain that shielded them from the audience’s view.

Natasha crouched down for her costume change, unpinning the top of her bodice so it fell to reveal a new colour. “You got me a meeting?”

“Right after you leave the stage. You might want to take him to the elephant, let him think he’s getting special treatment.”

“Should I play the long game or go for a quick finish?” A feathered skirt was handed to her.

“There’ll be champagne and food there, but the pace is up to you.”

“So pillow talk, if necessary?”

“Absolutely. Talk up the investment any way you can. We need to know his motives.”

“How long do I have?”

“How long can you keep him?”

Fully changed, she smirked. “Ten francs says all night,” she said, and the two of them stood up as the dancers’ dresses fell away. As she was applauded for her new appearance, she felt herself lifted by the other girls, and directed them to the Count’s table as she finished the song, sliding from their hands to stand so close to him he could probably see every sequin in the leg of the spider detailing the red satin of her new outfit. Up close, he appeared even younger than he had from afar.

His eyebrows shot up, and he lifted his gaze awkwardly, mouth open as if he wanted to greet her. He had nice brown eyes, Natasha found herself thinking, so she gave him a seductive smile and leant against the edge of the booth, one hand running up the wooden partition, the other on her hip. His eyes widened.

“I believe you were expecting me.”

The Count swallowed. “Yeah,” he breathed, and she spun back around to face the crowd.

“Sorry, boys,” she said to the crestfallen men. “I’ve picked my victim for tonight.” They applauded Karpov’s luck, though many of them failed to hide their disappointment and jealousy. With a grin, she turned back to him and slid her hands over his shoulders. “Why don’t you and I go somewhere quieter?” she purred, tugging on the collar of his jacket when he failed to respond. “I know the perfect place – specially suited to someone of your… calibre.”

The Count remained speechless as she coaxed him away, throwing a nervous glance over his shoulder at his friends. She ignored them, wondering briefly why he was acting so strangely for a man whom Coulson had described as ‘calculating’. She giggled when he looked back to her, and he chuckled in response. Tonight looked like it might be easier than she anticipated.

 

 

***

Never would Bucky have imagined that the “perfect place” Natalia had spoken of would be the interior of a giant, metal elephant standing outside La Chambre Rouge. As tall as a building, it was exuberantly decorated – inside and out – with golden windows, stairs leading from its face to its back, and a sheltered seating area at the top. No wall was left bare inside, with gold covered arches creating open ‘rooms’ containing beds and loveseats, each looking plump and comfortable. Thick rugs covered the polished floor, which shone under the small but intricate chandelier lights and ornate standing lamps. Curtains above the beds were pinned back to frame Renaissance-style paintings of lovers entwined, and the single table was laid generously with bowls of fruit and a bottle of champagne, two glasses waiting next to it. There was even a small upright piano tucked into the corner opposite the door. Whatever wasn’t gold was red, and Bucky was certain that such a place could only exist for one purpose.

It was very warm.

“Would you prefer to talk in English, or Russian?”

The strange question snapped Bucky out of his reverie, and he answered, “Uh, English is fine,” wondering if she was aware that he spoke Russian. He certainly hadn’t mentioned so to Steve.

“So,” Natalia said, gliding over to a large chest of draws. “I hear you’re interested in what La Chambre Rouge has to offer.”

“You could say that,” Bucky stammered as she disappeared behind a divider. “It was my friends who convinced me to come, really.”

“Your friends?” She poked her head around, one eyebrow raised. “The men you were with tonight?”

“Yeah.”

Natalia hummed, and went back to changing. “And here I thought you worked alone.”

“Alone? Oh, no, I’m not capable of doing anything like this on my own! In fact, it was their idea entirely, really, I was… just…” His train of thought vanished as she reappeared; gone was the feathered, sequined outfit she’d worn from the club. She now simply wore a black corset and stockings, a thin lace dressing gown hanging delicately from her shoulders. Her hair looked softer, the curls natural rather than styled and tumbling freely down her back. In the gentle light her skin glowed, giving her slender arms and legs a strength the lights of the dancefloor hadn’t.

It was very, very warm.

“You were just what?” Natalia prompted, approaching him slowly. A smile shaped her lips, and Bucky wanted to smile back. “The one who brought them all together?”

Sheepishly, he said, “Well, if you want to put it like that…”

“Interesting,” she murmured, and held a glass up to him, her eyes on his face the whole time. “Drink?”

“Please.”

The champagne she poured him did little to calm his nerves, particularly not when he downed half his glass in one gulp. If Natalia noticed, busy as she was staring at him, she didn’t say anything, much to his relief. “You’re not like the other business-minded men who have come here,” she said, standing very close.

“Is that a good thing?”

“Mmh. It’s refreshing. It’s why I brought you here.”

Bucky chuckled nervously. “I’m touched, but I’m really not a businessman.”

“Ah, forgive my assumptions, then,” Natalia said, smiling. Her champagne was still untouched. “But if business didn’t bring you here, what did?”

“I was told about you,” Bucky said before he could think, and Natalia’s eyes flashed.

“Were you, now?” She dropped her chin, setting the champagne glass carefully back onto the table. “And what,” she murmured, taking Bucky’s glass too, “were you told?”

He was fully aware that the space between them was closing. “That you’re the star of the club,” he mumbled, “one of the most beautiful women in Paris; Monsieur Coulson’s favourite –”

“Yes?” Her breath tickled his chin, and he jerked back in surprise.

“And that you might like to hear some poetry!”

Natalia blinked, bemused. “Poetry?”

“Yeah. Poetry.” Bucky’s heart was racing. “It’s, um – it’s a… talent, of mine.”

“Oh, a hidden talent?” she said. “I didn’t know that.” Picking up her glass again, she backed away onto the bed behind her. “Alright, then,” she said. “Delight me.”

And now Bucky’s heart was frantic for two reasons – one being that Natalia Romanova was far more beautiful up close than he had prepared himself for, and the second being that the last poem he could recall writing had been when he was a boy and his sister had challenged him to write a better poem than her – it had been about how he hated her dress because it was ‘too purple’. It came as little surprise to him, then, that when he did finally start to spew words in some vaguely poetic manner, it was nonsense about funny feelings and if he had money or was a man of a different profession. He even forgot what he’d been saying at one point, when he’d looked back at Natalia to see if she was listening and got lost in her eyes – which, to his amazement, were wide with intent and focused directly on him; not in the way they had been earlier, seductive and inviting, but with… wonder?

“So excuse me forgetting,” he said, stumbling towards the end (he hoped), “but these things I do – you see I’ve forgotten if they’re green or they’re blue.” Bucky could feel himself blushing. “Anyway, the thing is – what I really mean – yours are the sweetest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

Natalia smiled, the ghost of a laugh slipping out from between her lips. She had moved where she lay on the bed, rolling over onto her front and leaning on her elbows with her feet raised, legs crossed at the ankles. She’d been sipping her champagne to begin with but the drink was now all but forgotten, just hanging from her fingers. She was, Bucky realised, completely engrossed.

“And you can tell everybody,” he continued, a new confidence coursing through him, “this is your song. It may be quite simple, but, now that it’s done… I hope you don’t mind – I hope you don’t mind – that I put down in words… How wonderful life is, now you’re in the world.”

“I wasn’t expecting that,” Natalia said softly after a long minute of silence. She stood up slowly, leaving the glass on a table as she went to Bucky again. “You truly are talented,” she breathed.

Dizzy with her praise, Bucky grinned stupidly down at her, noticing again that there was not a lot of space between them at all. “So you’ll tell Coulson?” he asked. “You’ll get him to invest in our play?”

Natalia froze. “Excuse me?”

Bucky tensed too. “The play,” he said again. “The one me and Steve are working on.”

She frowned. “Steve…?”

“Rogers?”

The name had an immediate affect – Natalia’s expression cleared to an almost unreadable level, but before Bucky could ask what was going on she said, “You’re not Count Karpov, are you?”

“What?” he sputtered, trying not to laugh. “No, God no! Why would you think that?”

“Who are you, then?”

“I’m Buc- James Barnes. I’m a writer.”

“A writer…” In the blink of an eye, Natalia became cool and professional. “Well, James Barnes, it’s been a pleasure,” she said, “but I’m afraid there’s been a grave misunderstanding here. I have to ask you to leave.”

“Leave?” Bucky echoed. “Why?”

“It’s nothing personal,” Natalia said, leading him by the arm towards the door. “Your poetry was lovely, and I’m truly touched that you wanted to share it with me privately.”

“Wait, I don’t –”

“I wish you and Steve Rogers all the best with your play.”

As she opened the door, the sound of a conversation slipped in, and Natalia closed it again almost immediately, alarmed. Bucky stiffened too, automatically, his eyes darting between her and the door.

“The Count’s outside,” she whispered.

“The Count – Count Karpov?”

“It was him I was supposed to –”

“Mademoiselle Romanova?” a voice called.

Natalia backed them both away from the door. “Okay,” she breathed, looking around the room. “You need to go.”

“Hang on –”

“There’s no time to explain,” she said hurriedly, pushing him towards the elephant’s head as someone knocked on the only door into the room. “You’ll have to hide.”

“Hide?” Bucky said incredulously. “Where? For how long?”

“I don’t know, and until I can give you an opening!”

“Well what is it you’re going to be doing?”

Natalia paused, giving him a look.

“Oh.”

The knocking became more insistent. Panicked, Natalia said, “That’s Coulson – look, just stand behind that arch and don’t move until I give you a signal!”

Bucky moved, saying, “What kind of signal?” but Natalia just waved him out of sight. He pressed himself against the golden wall, peeking out around the arch to get a glimpse of Vasily Karpov for himself. Although he had no desire to be around while Natalia entertained the Count, there was little sense in wasting the opportunity to glean at least some information about the man.

“Monsieur Coulson, Lord Karpov,” Natalia greeted the men when she opened the door. “I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting,” she added, and stepped aside to let them in.

From behind the arch, Bucky caught his first glimpse of Count Vasily Karpov. Impeccably dressed in a starched black suit, and slightly taller than average, he cut an imposing figure against the shorter Coulson's more brightly-coloured attire. He had a precisely trimmed goatee covering his chin with an equally neat moustache under a strong nose, and piercing eyes beneath a heavy-set brow. His was the kind of gaze that scrutinised everything in his line of sight and decided he was above it all, and it took only a few seconds for Bucky to dislike the man further than he already did. It brought him a small amount of joy when he realised Karpov might possibly be wearing a toupee.

Having surveyed the interior, Karpov’s flint-like eyes darted to Natalia, and a slow, one-sided smile cut itself into his mouth. “Pas du tout,” he said, taking hold of her fingers. “The wait was entirely worth it, I can assure you.” Bucky squirmed slightly as he kissed Natalia's hand.

Coulson watched them, looking pleased yet detached. “I trust you’ll take good care of your guest, Miss Romanova,” he said.

“Absolument.” Natalia smiled coyly at the Count.

“Then I’ll leave you two to get better acquainted.”

“Can I offer you some refreshments?” she asked once Coulson had left.

“No, thank you,” the Count said, raising a hand to stop her. “But I would prefer it if we conversed in Russian. It is, after all, your native language, is it not?”

"It is," Natalia replied, and Bucky dared to edge closer around the edge of his hiding place. He hadn't needed to use his understanding of Russian in a while. "It's nice to be able to someone who speaks it again."

"Ah, but you speak French so beautifully."

"As do you. Tell me," she said, sidling closer to him. "Do you agree with what so many others say: that French is the most... romantic, of all language? Or do you see it as more of a language for businessmen?"

Karpov chuckled. "I am not a fool, Miss Romanova –"

"Natalia, please."

"Natalia. I know Coulson has asked you to 'soften me up' before his investment proposal." He took a lock of hair between his fingers, inspecting it down his nose. "I should warn you that whatever happens here will have no bearing on whether or not I find his club satisfactory to my needs."

"I would never take you for a fool, my Lord," Natalia said, covering his hand with her own. "But you are mistaken in your assumptions; I care about your investment in La Chambre Rouge because I care about La Chambre Rouge, not whether Coulson makes money from its sale. This is my home. I need to know that we're being placed in good hands." She guided Karpov's hands to rest low on her waist as she spoke, stepping closer into his personal space.

Karpov bent his head down to the curve of her neck, his nose hovering above the edge of the nightgown. Before the butterflies in Bucky's stomach turned into full-out nausea, he stopped, smiling. "I think I'd like that drink now," he said, and made his way to the table.

Bucky pressed himself back into the corner of the arch as the Count approached, watching out of the corner of his eye. If Karpov looked to his right at any point, Bucky would be a sitting duck, and despite Natalia's insistence that he leave as soon as possible, he wanted to hear as much of what was said between them as he could. For the mission, of course.

"It would appear you started without me."

The words made Bucky freeze where he was – they'd forgotten about the champagne glasses. There were already two out, the bottle already open, and Karpov had instantly picked up on the detail. He didn't dare breathe until Natalia laughed, saying, "I was merely anticipating your arrival, and may have indulged myself a little. There's still plenty left." Turning his head, he saw her come to stand next to Karpov, placing a hand on his shoulder to keep his back towards Bucky. As the Count busied himself with pouring the drinks, she glanced Bucky's way and motioned with her head for him to leave.

Holding his breath, Bucky slunk around the edge of the golden arch, trying to be as stealthy as possible whilst listening in on the conversation. Karpov was asking Natalia about her life in Russia, apparently interested in her reasons for leaving her homeland, and Bucky was halfway to the door when there was a brisk knock from the other side. With a speed he didn't know he possessed, Bucky dived to the nearest available hiding space, and found himself wedged in the narrow space between the hard floor and the bottom of the bed, as Karpov snapped "Yes?" and the door opened.

"Lord Karpov," a Russian voice said. "There's a small concern..."

"Then handle it, Lukin."

"It requires your brief attention, my Lord."

Bucky heard Karpov growl, "It better be brief," and saw his shoes march across the floor. When the golden door shut behind both sets of feet, he scrambled out from underneath the bed.

"Why are you still here?" Natalia hissed as he dusted himself down. "I told you, you need to go!"

"It's not exactly easy," he whispered back as she peeked through the peep-hole, shaking her head and pushing him back towards the outdoor staircase. "You try sneaking out when the person you're sneaking out from is –"

"I am doing my best!"

"And so am I –"

At that moment, Count Karpov reappeared. "I cannot apologise enough..." He slowed to a stop, eyes flicking between Bucky and Natalia where they stood, frozen, underneath the archway Bucky had been hiding behind moments ago. His lips thinned in displeasure, something hardening in his gaze. "Who is this?" he asked, tone clipped.

Bucky cleared his throat. "Barnes. James. James Barnes. Writer."

"And what are you doing here?"

"Oh, nothing I –"

"He was just leaving –"

"Came to talk to Natalia –"

"It's an old conversation –"

"We're here!"

Startled at the sound of a new voice, Bucky and Natalia turned to find Steve Rogers, wheezing slightly, framed by the open heart-shaped window in the elephant's head, arms spread wide as he announced 'their' arrival. He was still wearing his suit, giving him the impression of having run straight from La Chambre Rouge to... interrupt? Bucky didn't remember agreeing to meet at the elephant after his moment with Natalia; he hadn't even known this was where she would take him.

Regardless, Steve's timing was incredible.

"Sorry we're late," Steve gasped, joining them inside. "We had a small, uh, hiccup on the way over."

Behind him appeared Tony, Clint, and Bruce, each looking almost as dishevelled as Steve. A particularly disgruntled Tony said, "If by 'hiccup' you mean 'narcoleptic' –"

"Hey, I heard that!" Clint said.

"But you didn't hear me shouting when we were dangling –"

"Fellas," Steve said, "not now. The important thing is we're here, we're on time, and now the rehearsal can begin."

"Rehearsal?" Karpov said, his voice carrying throughout the room. "What rehearsal?" he asked, striding forward. "What is the meaning of this?"

Natalia opened her mouth to give him an answer, but Tony beat her to it; "We're Bohemians," he said, "if that wasn't already blindingly obvious to a man of your esteemed –"

Steve coughed.

"And we're putting on a play," Tony continued. "It's called... 'The Longest Winter'. And the Black Widow is starring in it. Hence we're here to rehearse with her."

The Count glanced sharply at them all one by one. "Coulson never mentioned anything about this."

"It's very new," Clint said, with Steve adding, "Only just agreed upon today."

He turned to Natalia. "And you knew these... Bohemians were coming?"

"I told them tomorrow," she said, her tone as cold as her glare. Bucky tried to convey his complete and utter bewilderment as subtly as he could.

"Why put off until tomorrow what could be done today?" Tony said, and approached Karpov. "I'm sure there's someone else you could go to in the meantime if it's female company you're after. I mean, this is La Chambre Rouge. What else is here besides beautiful women?"

"Yelena might be free," Clint supplied helpfully. "She's Russian too, I think. Not that I know you're Russian –"

"Clint –" Steve ground out.

"Isn't Yelena Ukrainian?" Bruce said.

"Oh yeah –"

Fuming, Karpov said, "Coulson will hear of this," and turned on his heel, striding towards the door.

"He already knows!" Natalia said, and the Count stopped in his tracks. "I'm sorry," she said when he turned back around. "This hasn't gone like I planned. I wanted to surprise you with an exclusive preview of the play, but I changed my mind at the last minute - I thought it would be better if we'd practised a scene before showing it to anyone. Clearly, my message didn't get to James."

Everyone held their breath as Karpov surveyed them all. Bucky was overwhelmingly relieved (and impressed) by Natalia's quick-thinking explanation. Karpov didn't look like a man he wanted to cross, especially not so early on. There was the slight problem that he would have to re-think his entry point into the man's business with La Chambre Rouge, but that was something he could work on away from the ruthless stare he was pinned under.

Finally, the Count simply said, "I see."

Natalia turned to Bucky and the Bohemians, smiling politely as she said, "I'm sorry about the confusion. Come again tomorrow, and we'll have a proper –"

"No," Karpov said, pulling up a chair and seating himself in it. With a wave of his hand, he said, "Show it to me."

They stared at him. "What?" Natalia said.

"Show me the play."

Nervous glances were shared before Steve said, "Well, we haven't exactly got a script yet."

"Then tell me what it's about," Karpov said amicably, picking up his champagne. He waited patiently, no trace of his earlier anger at being interrupted in his expression.

"You mean the story?"

"Yes."

"Right..." Steve nodded, then turned to his left. "Bucky?"

Bucky balked. "Uh." There was no escaping the limelight – Karpov was watching intently, as were Steve and the others. Even Natalia was looking at him with a mixture of pleading and intrigue, and Bucky wished he could tune out the other eyes and the garish room until it was just the two of them. And that was when inspiration struck. "It's about love."

"Love?"

"Yeah," he said, nodding to himself. "Love overcoming all obstacles."

"What kind of obstacles?" Karpov said.

He thought for a moment. "Loneliness," he said eventually, "and duty."

"The struggle between head and heart," Steve added.

"Doing what you know is right and what you know is wrong," Bruce said.

Tony helpfully added, "And it's set in winter."

"In Russia," Bucky said. "When a young soldier, and a..."

"A ballerina." Natalia gave him a wide-eyed side glance, and he smiled.

"A young soldier and a ballerina," he continued, "fall in love. But they cannot be together."

"Because the soldier has to go to war," Clint said, but Bucky corrected him.

"Not just any war – a highly secretive war, one he's been specially trained for. So he goes to the ballerina and he asks her if she'll wait for him." He looked at Natalia as he spoke; "She wants to be mad at him, but she realises that he has no choice, and that he never knew he would fall in love with her so fast." Her eyes widened minutely, and the corner of her mouth twitched.

"Is that it?" Karpov said, sounding unimpressed. "Even I can tell that is not an exciting love story."

"There's more," Bucky said, putting out a hand to stay him. "What the soldier doesn't know is that the ballerina is already expected to marry someone else."

The Count raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

"The soldier's general," Bruce said. "The man who trained the soldier for this secret war."

"But he doesn't know this," Bucky said, picking up on Bruce's idea, "not at first. When he finds out, though, he tries to send the soldier away earlier –"

"So the soldier sends the ballerina a message," Steve interrupted, "asking her to run away with him!"

"Which she agrees to," Natalia agreed.

Bucky decided to round up the plot before it go too farfetched; "And so they meet in the middle of a winter's night – with the whole of the general's forces looking for them – and sneak away to live happily ever after together."

With one hand stroking his goatee, Karpov mulled over what he'd heard. "And how would the soldier get a message to the ballerina?" he asked. "Surely if he's been sent away early, they would have no time to correspond?"

"He has a magic pen!"

Everyone turned to Clint. "A what?" Bruce asked.

"I don't know," he said, shrugging. "Maybe he just... thinks of her and writes it in mid-air, or something."

Eagerly, Tony nodded, adding, "And the message appears on the nearest surface."

"Which is also how the general finds out they're in love," Bucky finished.

Still thoughtful, Karpov turned his gaze to Natalia. "I take it Natalia is the ballerina?"

"I am," she said proudly.

"I'm the soldier!" Clint declared, quickly raising his hand. Tony looked at him sceptically, and Clint pouted. "What? I'm younger looking than you."

"Fine. Then I'll be the general." He smirked at Bucky. "I always wanted to try my hand at playing a narcissistic –"

"I'll be the pen," Steve cut in, "writing whatever Clint tells me to wherever I can."

"Tony is a –"

"Not now, Clint."

"Don't you think it needs a little something else?" Karpov said, bringing everyone's attention to him. "Like... a death?"

Immediately, everyone protested. "Nobody comes to La Chambre Rouge to be reminded of death," Natalia said. "They come to live out their dreams, their fantasies, to be reminded that they can and should be happy."

"Exactly," Bucky agreed. "And what's better than seeing love overcoming all adversaries?"

The Russian studied them all a moment longer, his eyes lingering on Natalia. Bucky’s heart hammered in his chest, but before he had time to wonder at that, Karpov lowered his hand, and, with a single nod, said, “I like it.”

 

 

***

The celebrations began almost immediately. Tony declared he and the small Bohemians would be the hosts back at their apartment, but as they began to haul an unconscious Clint away Natasha quickly excused herself and took Karpov to Coulson, wondering the whole way there how she was going to explain this change in the plan.

Coulson was, understandably, very confused when Karpov announced his intention to fund the production of ‘The Longest Winter’. Natasha managed to get him to play along until the Count left – minus a not-so-small sum of money – and was just about ready to defend herself when the interrogation began.

“It was the best course of action.”

“Really?” Coulson asked. “Going along with a group of Bohemians’ barely-formed idea for a production to convince Karpov you hadn’t mistaken one of them for him was the best course of action?”

“Barnes wouldn’t leave,” she reiterated, “and then when Steve showed up, none of them could. Karpov was already trying to call us out; you would have lost his trust and his investment if he remained unconvinced.”

“No, you would have lost him,” he said sternly. Pacing, he ran a hand down his face. “We’re lucky he still wants you,” he thought aloud. “The rehearsals might take up a lot of valuable time, but if he’s truly interested in it he’ll be sticking around. That might actually leave you with more time to find out what he wants.”

“The long game definitely seems better,” she agreed. “He’s a smart man. He won’t reveal everything all at once.”

“Then you need to make him feel like he can.” He sighed, stopping to sit on his desk. Folding his arms, he asked, “Did you make any headway before things went pear-shaped?”

Natasha nodded. “I can play up the romance angle. He thinks I’m concerned for the club. I figured he might eventually tell me as reassurance.”

“And this Barnes character?”

“He’s…” Handsome. Talented. Something of a wordsmith. “Not an issue. Neither are the troupe – they just want their play brought to life.”

Coulson nodded. “Okay. This isn’t a lost cause. Stay focused – don’t let this show distract you.”

Standing to leave, Natasha turned to him with a smile. “How good an actress do you think I should be?”

“I don’t know,” he said lightly. “Marginally better than everyone else?”

She left his office in better spirits than when she’d arrived. Making her way back to the elephant, she could hear the sounds of celebrating Bohemians from the streets of Montmartre, the loud music and chatter spilling out into the night. Part of her wanted to join them, to find James Barnes again and hear what else he could conjure up. She hadn’t admitted as such to Coulson, but the prospect of playing a ballerina excited her more than it probably should have. It had been too long since she last danced to Tchaikovsky or Debussy, and she missed being able to immerse herself in a routine meant for no-one but her.

That wasn’t to say she enjoyed isolation. Indeed, as she climbed up into the elephant and changed into a warmer dress, Natasha found herself thinking (not for the first time) about her choices in life: choices made, and choices she might yet make. As a young girl she’d chosen to follow Ivan into the shadows, to become skilled in espionage and the art of manipulation. Later, she’d chosen to go with Coulson, to forge a better life for herself and hundreds of innocents Ivan held no care for. But now, thinking back on the simpler times of her life, Natasha wondered if sticking with espionage was what she wanted.

In that moment, she decided she wanted a better view of the city, and ascended the stairs to the elephant’s back. A cool breeze tickled her arms and tugged at her hair, making her smile. _If I was a sculptor_ , James had said. _Or a man who makes potions in a travelling show_. What if Natasha could fly – where would she go? Off the top of her head, she couldn’t think of anywhere. She knew Russia, distantly, and Paris, but there was a whole world out there. James hadn’t sounded local, and she knew Coulson wasn’t a native to Paris either, as long as he claimed to have lived here. What were their worlds like? And would Natasha ever get there if she continued to play spies at a cabaret club and simply dream of the places she could be instead?

“Shit!”

Natasha whipped around, ready to face an attacker. She relaxed when she realised who it was. “What are you doing here?”

Straightening up from where he’d tripped over one of the seats, James cleared his throat and gave her a sheepish smile. “I climbed up the tail,” he said.

Raising her eyebrow, Natasha folded her arms and asked, “Did someone challenge your elephant-climbing prowess?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head as he made his way over to her. “They’re all celebrating still. And I’m not because I was trying to write, but…”

“Writer’s block,” she guessed, and he chuckled.

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

They laughed softly, and James ran a hand over his short hair, messing it up more than the wind had. He was still wearing the shirt, jacket and trousers from earlier that evening – less formally, but it was endearing to imagine him running to his desk and starting straight away. Natasha had been thrilled when he incorporated her idea for a ballerina without hesitation. It was the first fantasy to be indulged by someone else since her childhood.

“Hey,” James said, “can I – can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Back then, before you realised I wasn’t who you thought I was,” he began. “Everything was just an act, wasn’t it?”

He looked like he already knew the answer, but Natasha nodded gently and said, “Most of it, yes.”

“Most of it?” Unconsciously, perhaps, his face had become very hopeful, his mouth lifting up at one corner.

Natasha felt he was at least owed a slither of truth. “Your poetry,” she said. “Nobody’s ever made anything like that for me before.”

“How do you know it was for you?”

“You mean you weren’t making it up as you went along?” She tutted. “James. I hope you don’t deceive all the women in your life like that.”

“I would never,” he said with a sincerity that confirmed Natasha’a suspicions. He had gone in unprepared.

“Well, it was beautiful,” she said. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he returned, tucking his hands into his trouser pockets. “But, uh… It didn’t make you fall in love with me, huh?”

Without meaning to, Natasha laughed. “No, no. But don’t take it personally.”

“What do you mean?”

“In my line of work, feelings – well. Let’s just say that love is for children.”

James looked shocked by her words. “What? No it isn’t,” he said. “Without love, there wouldn’t be any children!”

“Plenty of people marry for convenience.”

“And just as many marry for happiness.”

“Really?” she said, turning back to the night-covered city. “And where does that get them? How long can love last when happiness is so easily forgotten?”

“Because being in love can lead to happiness.” James appeared at her side, his eyes as bright as the lamps in the street below. “Everyone wants love – children, Bohemians, crazy Russian counts with bad toupees…” He paused as Natasha stifled a laugh. “Love is inspiring. Love is what brings people together – as a family, as a nation, as brothers and sisters – why on earth should that be solely for children?”

Somewhere in the city, a baby was crying. “Because love can also lead to pain,” Natasha said, “and children are adaptable. They can learn that before it’s too late.”

James shifted on the spot. She could hear the frown in his voice when he asked, “Somebody broke your heart?”

“Nobody’s had the luxury of having my heart.” She turned back to him with a smile. “I can’t fall in love.”

He stared at her. Slowly, a grin shaped his lips, as he shook his head. “I don’t believe that.”

Natasha shrugged. “Fine. It’s true.”

“No it’s not,” James insisted. “I bet you’ve just never met the right person. I’ll give you a hint: it’s not someone like Karpov.”

She turned to him with a laugh. “You think I would fall in love with a man like Vasily Karpov?”

“Oh, God, no, of course not.” His smirk was full of confidence, so different from when he’d stumbled over himself when they first met. “You’d fall for someone like me.”

Pretending to give it some thought, Natasha hummed. “No.”

James laughed brightly. “What if I persuaded you?”

It was a line she’d heard before, and Natasha rolled her eyes. “Many have tried and failed.”

“So I’ll be the first to try and succeed.” He was hardly going to be deterred, she realised. Taking her silence for approval, he smoothed his jacket lapels and, standing straight, said, “I’m the best-dressed Bohemian in Paris.”

A laugh was startled out of Natasha. “Wouldn’t some of them have something to say about that?”

“Perhaps – but then I’d have something to say right back to them, ‘cause I’m a writer.” His eyes sparked with cheek as he added, “And I’ve been told my wordplay is ‘beautiful’, to quote a fan.”

“She must be quite the fool.”

“On the contrary,” he said, “I think she’s very intelligent. She knows good poetry when she hears it.” Natasha sighed, making him laugh. “I’d write her more, if she asked! Hell, I’m writing a whole play for her.”

“No, you’re not,” Natasha said, and turned to go back downstairs. Some distance between her and James might be good.

“But I want to,” James insisted, following her down. “People always talk about her as being one of the most incredible sights in Paris – right up there with the Eiffel Tower and the Notre Dame – and I can’t say they’re wrong, but they’re saying it for the wrong reasons.” They reached the interior of the elephant’s head, and James darted around her, stopping Natasha from going further. “You are one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met,” he said softly, “but not just because you have gorgeous eyes or stunning dresses. You’re intuitive. You’re clever. You have the ability to read people and know them in seconds, and I wish I could do the same with you because I’m sure that what makes you truly incredible is underneath the sequins and the behind the voice, waiting for someone to find it.” He paused, taking a breath. “And if love is for children, then let me be a child again, because what I’m feeling for you, Natalia? I don’t want to live not knowing that feeling.”

“Natasha,” she breathed.

“What?”

At some point, they’d moved close to one another. The warmth of his body could be felt across her front, his arms encircling her waist securely, the material of his jacket smooth under her palms. It was almost natural to slide one hand up to his neck, to feel the faint thrum of his pulse matching hers, and the bristle-like hairs at the back of his head. “You’re going to be bad for business,” she whispered, “I can tell.”

It was Natasha’s pleasure to kiss the grin from his lips.

 

 

***

In the morning light, La Chambre Rouge looked almost like a different building. The doors were shut, the lights were off, and the whole place had a lacklustre appearance that was almost off-putting. “Thank God for the miracle of butterflies,” Karpov muttered to himself.

“You think Monsieur Coulson will keep to his side of the bargain?” Aleksander asked beside him.

“He understands that there will be consequences if he does not,” he said. “And as you said, he is eager to please. Any trouble caused now would ruin the club’s reputation, and for the sake of his precious Hawks, he’ll do anything to prevent that from happening.”

Aleksander hummed. “Maybe Leonid was right. Perhaps he does care too much.”

“Then we can use that against him.” The Count looked around them. “Leonid, Dmitri, Arkady. Where are they?”

“Dmitri and Arkady returned shortly after you retired for the evening. Arkady said something about Leonid being with one of the girls – a Ukranian, or something. I can send one of them to look for him?”

Karpov nodded. “Tell Arkady to come here and have Dmitri search for Leonid. Depending on what state he’s in, send him back or bring him here.”

Aleksander turned to go. “He will be sore about it if you take him off the board.”

“Natalia is mine now. I will not have Leonid leeching over her to any degree, for her sake and his.” He breathed in deeply, inhaling the remnants of cigar ash and something stronger in the air. “He can settle for the Ukranian.”

And Leonid would, he knew, because Leonid didn’t have it in him to challenge Karpov for anything more. Karpov, on the other hand, took what he wanted. Last night he had secured the Black Widow exclusively for himself – she would not be seen by any other, save for those she had to work with on the play. He’d made the investment ride on that one condition, letting Coulson know that the success of the production would determine La Chambre Rouge’s future, and after that – well, it was harder to take candy from a baby. “Ah, Coulson,” he breathed, looking up at the club that would one day be his. “Your heart is your weakness.”

 

 

***

With Karpov’s investment, La Chambre Rouge underwent an impressive transformation almost immediately – as Bucky wrote the story he discussed settings and scenery with Steve, who sketched ideas for everything from stage backdrops to soldier uniforms, and within a few days those ideas had seemingly jumped straight from the paper to real-life. “I called in a few favours,” was all Steve would say. Bucky trusted him enough to leave it at that.

Bruce and Tony involved themselves, too, offering up musical accompaniments and lighting assistance, and even Clint tried to do more than get through a few lines a day – “I think I found someone who can cure my narcolepsy,” he told Bucky one day.

“Cure your narcolepsy? I didn’t think there was a cure.”

“Neither did I, but this guy – Strange – said he could do it.”

“What’s strange about him?”

“What?”

“You said he was strange.”

“Yeah.”

“… In what way?”

“No, that’s his name. Strange.”

Bucky remained sceptical about Clint’s success in getting cured of his narcolepsy, but almost everything else looked like it was going to be just fine. As agreed in the elephant room, Steve, Tony and Clint were also starring in the production alongside Natasha and other members of La Chambre Rouge, but it soon became apparent that there were a few slight problems – Tony had a habit of ignoring direction and cutting the scenes himself, shouting up at the lighting team or correcting one of the background dancers; Steve was forever forgetting his lines, either distracted by the backdrops he’d helped paint or adding more words than there were in the actual script; and Clint not only often missed his cue lines entirely, but was still narcoleptic, and had yet to make it through one entire practise without dropping unconscious part-way through.

Another, perhaps more personal problem for Bucky, was the fact that Karpov was a constant presence, sitting ramrod straight before the in-progress stage as Bucky directed the actors. His eyes were only ever fixed on two points: Natasha, or the back of Bucky’s head. His entourage – four Russian men whom Bucky did his best to avoid – would seat themselves at the other end of the former dance hall, playing cards and conversing in their native tongue, just far away enough that Bucky could never quite make out what they were saying. It was at least reassuring to know that they didn’t have half the interest in him Karpov did, and despite his mission, Bucky was unnerved by the Count’s attention.

Lastly, and most devastatingly, his time alone with Natasha during these rehearsals was practically non-existent. For the sake of appearances, she kept close to Karpov when she wasn’t on stage, prompting Bucky to come up with excuse after excuse as to why he needed to steal her away – checking a line worked, a costume fitting, needing her opinion on a set design, etc. etc. There was a good probability Karpov was getting suspicious, but when Bucky could finally have Natasha to himself, he didn’t care. Vasily Karpov was the last person on Bucky’s mind when he crowded her against a pillar up on the mezzanine, her laugh quiet and stifled in his ear as he leant in to kiss her. With his fingers in her hair, her hands cradling the back of his neck and sliding over his shoulders, and the scent of her perfume surrounding him, it was easy to forget that they were in a public area, at risk of being found in the space of a heartbeat. The way Natasha melted into him – the urgency of her touches and the spark of want in her green eyes – made every stolen moment worth it, and made Bucky long for her more and more.

His apartment began to be their rendezvous point when they weren’t needed at the club. There, in costume or little else, they could enjoy each other’s company with less of a risk of being seen or interrupted. Steve found out eventually, thanks to the badly covered hole in Bucky’s ceiling, but to their relief he was delighted for them, inviting them up to his own apartment for readings and dinner.

“I cannot ask this of you!” Bucky cried dramatically, jumping from Steve’s bed to the floor in front of Natasha. She laughed as he put on an overly-anguished expression, the pan he was wearing on his head threatening to slip off. “I am a soldier of the winter, sworn never to return until my secret and dangerous mission is complete. In what world would a beautiful ballerina wait for someone like me?”

“Oh, but I would!” Natasha laughed, reciting her own lines just as melodramatically. “No matter where you go or for how long you are gone, I will be waiting for you upon your return, my love!”

“Even if what you say is true, I cannot go, despite my General’s orders! I will find you, my ballerina. Wait for a message from me; it will say –”

“Oh, that’s my part!” Steve said excitedly from the stove. “The most incredible skill you will ever master –”

“Steve, am I giving you a different script to everyone else?” Bucky asked as Natasha laughed into his shoulder.

“Sorry, Buck,” he said, bringing over a bowl of delicious-smelling stew. “I get excited, I guess.”

“He’s doing fine, James,” Natasha said, leaning against him. She was the only person since his parents who called him James. She was the only person since his sister to laugh at him when he goofed around. She was the only person to ever call him ‘idiot’ with more fondness than he knew what to do with.

Looping his arm around her shoulders, Bucky said, “You’re right,” and kissed her head. He gestured at Steve’s stew. “If he fails as an actor, he has a promising career as a chef, at least.”

“You’re a jerk, Bucky Barnes.”

“And you’re a punk, but I wouldn’t want you any other way, Steve Rogers.”

“Bucky, please!” Steve said, mock offended. “Your girlfriend is present.”

“And she’s hungry,” Natasha said, slipping out from under Bucky’s arm and taking a bowl from Steve’s cupboard. When Steve asked how she knew where he kept the crockery, she simply smiled and winked.

And Bucky thought it was impossible to love her more.

 

 

***

“No no no, just move it to the left – no, not my left, your left. Not that far. Just a little – ow, now I’m blinded, good job, You. Where’s the other lighting guy, what’s his name? Dummy?”

Coulson watched with mild amusement as Stark tormented the lighting assistants. He’d never pictured the man as an actor himself, knowing Stark’s preferences for all things electric, but he was handling the character of the General quite well (when he wasn’t taking it upon himself to direct the stagehands). He wondered if he was taking inspiration from a real-life figure.

“Monsieur Coulson.”

Speak of the Devil; Coulson put on a smile and went to greet Count Karpov. He and his four associates were just entering the club, and Coulson noticed the way one of them immediately scowled in his direction – the slim one, who was it… Leonid? Regardless, he filed the point away for later consideration. “Count Karpov, bonjour –”

“Where is Natalia?”

The question drew Coulson up short, but he kept smiling and thought up an excuse. “I haven’t seen her yet this morning, but there’s a good chance she’s in her dressing room getting ready for the first scene.”

“And the writer?”

“Barnes?” He hadn’t expected Karpov to be interested in any of the Bohemians. “I’m afraid I don’t know, but he’ll soon be here –”

“Natalia was supposed to meet me for dinner last night,” Karpov said. “I looked for her once the rehearsal was over and was told that she and Barnes had already left to practise a new scene together.”

“… Ah.”

The Count was less than impressed with his response. “We had a deal, Coulson,” he said darkly, stepping into Coulson’s personal space. “I don’t care that Barnes is the one directing her – Natalia has been spending far too much time with him and I want it to end. I suggest you see to it that that happens before I take matters into my own hands.” He withdrew, inspecting the cuff of his sleeve. “I’m sure there are plenty of other Bohemians capable of filling his shoes.”

“That won’t be necessary, sir,” Coulson said, sensing both a threat and an opportunity. “I can have Miss Romanova take the night off once the main rehearsal is done, if you’d like? She might enjoy the break, I think, especially in your company.”

His expression remained hard, but when Karpov simply sniffed and strode away, Coulson knew he’d won himself some time. He needed to speak to Natasha; it hadn’t escaped his notice either that she’d been doing a lot of ‘extra rehearsing’, and he had to make sure she was still on track with her objective. The sooner they got information about Karpov’s true intentions for La Chambre Rouge, the better. He was an unsettling presence at best, and Coulson wanted him gone.

Quickly, he headed up to the dressing rooms. “Yelena,” he called to one of the dancers. “Have you seen Natalia?”

Yelena scowled. “Every man and his uncle has seen Natalia,” she said.

“Where is she?”

The blonde’s eyes lit up. “Why? Is she in trouble?”

“Yelena.”

She sighed shortly, pointing towards Natasha’s room. “She’s in there.” With a wicked grin, she added, “Her and that writer are ‘rehearsing’ again.”

Coulson groaned inwardly. If she was right, then Karpov’s suggestion of a replacement might be something to seriously consider. His fears were confirmed when he approached Natasha’s door and saw Barnes smartening himself up in front of it, a lipstick smear at the corner of his mouth.

“Why was Barnes here?” he asked when Natasha let him in.

“I had a question about a few lines that didn’t –”

“Natasha.”

She stopped, her expression sobering. “Coulson, I –”

“You’re having dinner with Karpov tonight.”

“I already told James I’d –”

“Remind me again of his relevance to your mission?” Coulson said. “Because if I remember correctly, conducting an affair behind the mark’s back wasn’t part of your initial briefing.”

Natasha flushed, her throat bobbing slightly. “It’s not an affair.”

“Is that supposed to reassure me?” he said, feeling his temper fray. “I thought I could entrust such a simple objective to you without anything going wrong whatsoever.”

“And you can.”

“So what can you tell me about the Count’s plans for La Chambre Rouge?”

She hesitated. “He asks about the people here a lot, and how you treat us. He still thinks it’s my dream to be an actress.”

When that appeared to be all she could offer him, Coulson sighed, frustrated. “This thing with Barnes,” he said, “it ends tonight. You’ll have dinner with Karpov and you will use that opportunity to find something that might help us – whether that’s something he says or something he owns, I don’t care, as long as it’s more than what we already have to go on.” Natasha nodded, tight-lipped, and he was reminded of the teenager he found next to a burning hospital in Moscow. “I know Barnes is charming,” he said in a softer tone, “but he’s also a distraction, and Karpov’s getting antsy. If you want Barnes to stay working on this play, you’ll refocus and take Karpov’s attention away from him.”

Frowning, she asked, “Why? What did Karpov say?” and Coulson knew then that this was a deeper problem than he’d first thought.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, not unkindly, “because you’re going to give him what he wants: you.”

 

 

***

“Nat?”

The knock on her door made her jump, and Natasha cursed quietly. “Yes?”

James poked his head around the door, smiling at her. “Everyone’s waiting for you,” he said. “Stop being a diva and… Are you alright?”

She was trying to work out how long it had been since Coulson had told her to stop seeing James. Him appearing now and calling her ‘Nat’ only made the prospect of breaking things off with him even harder. For now, she forced a smile and stood, saying, “I’m sorry, I just lost track of time.”

He came into the room, cupping her jaw with his hands (so rough for a writer, she’d thought). “What’s wrong?” he asked again.

“Nothing, James,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m fine. We should go.”

Although he didn’t look convinced, James nodded, and leaned in for a kiss. Natasha moved her head, knowing instantly that it was the wrong thing to do. “Natasha, what happened?”

She slipped out of his hold, saying, “James, I told you –”

“Yeah, well I don’t believe you. Was it one of the girls?” he asked, sounding concerned. “Yelena? Did she say something?”

“Nobody said anything.”

“Then what?”

“We need to rehearse.”

“Please, Nat,” James said, his hands going to her shoulders as she tried to move past him. “Let me help. What’s got you so on edge?”

Natasha felt like she could barely look at him. “Karpov is getting suspicious,” she admitted, tone low. “He’s already spoken to Coulson, and he wants me to…”

“To spend more time with him.”

“He’s our investor,” she said. “If he decides to leave, he’ll take his money with him, and the club will be in ruins. If I stay with you –” She swallowed. “I’m not sacrificing La Chambre Rouge for an infatuation.”

He looked at her, hurt written over his face. “An infatuation?” he repeated. “That’s what you think this is, an infatuation?”

“Maybe it’s for the best.”

“What?”

“Coulson knows, James.” He drew back in surprise, and she continued, “It’s only a matter of time before the Count finds out. If we end it here, before it becomes more, he won’t –”

“And what if it’s already ‘more’?”

She stared at him, whispering, “It can’t be.”

Stepping away, James unbuttoned his shirt. “This is not an infatuation for me,” he said over her hushed cries for him to stop before someone saw. He pulled the left side down, revealing the scars she’d seen running along his arm when they’d first spent the night together. “If I was merely infatuated, I wouldn’t have told you what these mean.”

A plane crash, he’d told her, when he was a boy. His whole family died except for him, a doctor on the same flight having saved his life – and his arm – before losing her own. She knew each textured line personally, had gently tripped over them with her fingertips and pressed kiss after kiss against their contours. Gradually, James had stopped trying to cover them, had stopped insisting she lay on his right side, had stopped looking ashamed whenever she came close to them. He’d come to trust her.

“I let you have a part of me no-one else has ever had,” he said, buttoning up the shirt again. “And I gave it willingly, Natasha, because I love you.”

Her resolve was breaking. “James –”

“So just remember that,” he continued, “whenever you’re with him.”

Natasha looked up. “Excuse me?”

James sighed, running a hand through his hair. “If staying with Karpov is enough to convince him you’re not interested in me… then you’re right. You should go to him.”

This wasn’t how she had expected him to react. It almost hurt as much as ending things completely. “James…”

“Just remember that I can’t change how I feel about you,” he said, face open, heart on his sleeve. “Please.” And with that, he turned away.

On an impulse, Natasha said, “Back in Russia, I had a child.”

He froze in the doorway. She hoped that he could see what she was doing, because despite what Coulson had told her to do, she couldn’t – Natasha couldn’t let him share so much of himself with her and think that she didn’t return his feelings.

“A little girl,” she said, and he looked back at her. Taking a deep breath, she carried on; “I was young – too young to be a parent. But I – I did my best. I tried to look after her properly, a-and when she got sick, I took her to a… a hospital…”

Sometimes, when the scent of cigarette smoke snuck into James’ apartment through an open window, it took her back to the moment she’d laid eyes on the burning building and grown numb with horror. If Coulson hadn’t found her when he did, she didn’t know where she would be now. (But she could hazard a likely guess.)

“What was her name?”

The letters lodged themselves in her throat. Blinking back tears, she shook her head.

James understood. “I’ll go and see if Clint’s awake,” he said. Carefully, he approached her once more, and Natasha couldn’t bring herself to stop him from giving her a slow, tender kiss.

They both knew grief, she thought once he had left her to fix her make-up. She would go to Karpov like Coulson wanted, but she would be damned before she took love away from James again.

 

 

***

“He is sending me away,” Clint said. “I do not know why, but I can only conclude that he suspects us, and wants for us to be parted.”

Bucky watched the rehearsal with waning interest. This particular scene mirrored his own life too closely for comfort, and he was still troubled by what Natasha had told him in her dressing room. _Coulson knows. It’s only a matter of time before the Count finds out._

“We cannot let him win,” Natasha said on the stage. “What we have between us is true love, far truer than he and I could ever share. If the General thinks we will give up our freedom for him, then he will be proven wrong. I, for one, won’t let him control me any longer.”

He hated that he and Natasha were being forced to sneak around so that a pretentious, cruel, self-centred bastard like Karpov could feel important and have his way. It was reassuring to know that Natasha loved him, even if she hadn’t been able to completely give him that secret part of herself.

“I would not either, but what are we to do? His reach is far, and his anger knows no boundaries. In defying him, we could seal our fates before we escape his wrath. My love, he could destroy everything.”

Men like Karpov – powerful ones who were used to getting what they wanted, and did more than throw a tantrum when they were denied – were everywhere in the world. Working for Fury, Bucky had seen more than enough of them, and knew how much better the world would be without them. The thought to slit Karpov’s throat in the middle of the night had occurred to him, but that wasn’t his mission, and he wasn’t a killer. More than that, though, he didn’t want to risk Natasha’s life.

“He cannot touch our love. Oh, my brave, smart, wonderful soldier – I would rather be with you and have the General be angry than stay with him to make him happy, and never know your touch again, or the sound of your laughter, or the light in your eyes.”

And yet, he simply didn’t want Karpov to have her, either.

“You call me brave; it is you who is braver than I. But you are right: I could not bear a life without you, either. The General be damned! I propose we –”

Everyone groaned as Clint collapsed on stage, snoring almost as soon as he hit the decking. Dragging himself out of his head, Bucky called, “Alright, we’ll call it a wrap on the ending. Uh, let’s go to the scene where the General and the Ballerina have dinner together.”

 

 

***

As the blonde Bohemian was dragged offstage yet again, Karpov sighed. Why they insisted on having someone so unreliable in the play was beyond him, and opposite Natalia, too. If it wasn’t for her insistence on the man’s inclusion, he would have demanded a replacement be found.

“He’ll certainly make opening night more interesting,” Aleksander muttered.

“He’s a nuisance.”

“So have Leonid take care of him,” he said with a laugh. “The man’s been desperate to do something he’s good at since we arrived in this city.”

“Leonid needs to learn self-control.”

“I agree,” a new voice said, and Karpov glanced to his side as Leonid’s whore, Yelena, sauntered up. She wasn’t in costume, but her Silver Hawks’ dress was instantly recognisable, the bright yellow underskirt almost insulting to look at. “He thinks only of himself, just like everyone else in this chortiv city.”

Karpov ignored her, but Aleksander chuckled. “Everyone?”

“Yes, everyone,” Yelena said. Throwing a hand towards the stage, she continued, “Even this sweet little writer and his pathetic ballerina fantasy.” Hands on her hips, she looked back at Karpov over her shoulder, adding, “Why would a general who can have everything let one lowly writer stand in his way? Oops!” Yelena pressed her hand over her mouth, her eyes glinting as she corrected herself: “I mean, soldier.”

Behind them, Leonid shouted for Yelena, and with a quiet giggle she flounced away. Karpov barely registered her leaving. He looked at the stage, seeing only Natalia and Barnes, and wondered why he’d never noticed the similarities between Barnes and the Soldier before.

Barnes would take him for a fool? Not if he had anything to say about it.

“Change the ending!”

The theatre stopped. All eyes turned to him. Barnes was confused. Natalia looked concerned.

Standing, he strode towards the stage. “Did you not hear me?” he called, knowing that they did the way his voice echoed around the space. “I said change the ending!”

It was Barnes who dared to speak. “But, my Lord –”

“It’s ridiculous,” Karpov said, pleased to cut him off. “The Soldier clearly knows how powerful the General is, so why don’t we see it? And why would the Ballerina choose a man who would give her a life of fear and hardship, when someone like the General could provide her security, warmth, and the finest in all she could ask for?”

Nobody said anything. He saw Barnes look towards Natalia, but Natalia’s gaze was fixed in Karpov’s direction. She looked thoughtful, like she agreed with him, and the Count smiled to himself.

“Change it,” he said again, turning to go back to his seat. “I want the whole ending re-written by tomorrow.”

“I won’t do that.”

Karpov stopped.

Barnes continued, “This is how the story goes. I’m sorry, but if you wanted the ending to be different, you should have told me earlier.”

“I’m telling you now,” Karpov said, slowly turning back around. “I don’t like this ending. Change it.”

“And I’m telling you that’s not possible.”

He advanced on the writer. “You will make it possible.”

“No,” Barnes said. “You can’t always have your own way!”

“Make the Ballerina choose the General.”

“She wants to stay with the Soldier!”

“The Soldier does what he is told!” Karpov roared. He and Barnes glared at one another, eye to eye, at the centre of attention. “He knows his duty – he will go to war!”

“And the Ballerina will forget.”

Karpov whirled around at Natalia’s interjection. Beside him, he heard Barnes let out a shaky breath.

Natalia descended the stairs of the stage, captivating in her steady movements. “She will dine with the General,” she said, her voice carrying, “and over time, as his secret mission goes on, she will forget that the Soldier ever existed.”

Whispers and murmurings started up as Natalia came to stand before the Count. Karpov didn’t care – he was thrilled that she agreed with and was supporting him.

“They will marry at the Tsar’s palace before the Soldier returns. A red wedding,” she said, smiling at Karpov, “for Mother Russia.”

Barnes looked crushed. “Natalia –”

“You’re a talented writer, James,” she said to him. “I’m sure you’ll be able to rewrite a few lines before the start of tomorrow’s rehearsal?” Subdued, Barnes nodded, and Natalia addressed the Count again. “Perhaps, my Lord, you and I could discuss the merits and failings of the rest of the play over dinner this evening?”

Karpov had no intention of talking about anything related to this farce later on, but he was feeling kind towards Natalia, and agreed. He returned to his seat as the rehearsal continued, satisfied that Barnes now knew his place in the world.

 

 

***

Backstage, when they were done for the day, Natasha was ready to prepare for her dinner when James stepped out of the shadows. “Nat, I don’t trust him,” he whispered. “Don’t go to him tonight. Please.”

Above them, the lighting assistants clanged across the walkways, checking spotlights and filters and trading quips about Tony Stark. Natasha tuned them out, focusing on James’ worried face. “You don’t have to worry about me,” she murmured back. “It’s only dinner.”

“I know men like him,” he said. “They are rarely satisfied, if ever, and Karpov –”

“Is not your concern.” After a quick glance around, she rested a hand against his cheek. “I know how to take care of myself, James.”

He sighed deeply, new creases forming on his brow as the corners of his mouth dipped. He stepped close enough to touch his forehead to hers, his hands settling at her waist. “I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I just – I don’t want you getting hurt if there was something I could have done to prevent it.”

Nuzzling against him, Natasha moved her hand to his scarred shoulder, squeezing it gently. “You won’t lose me,” she promised.

A moment later, he gave her a fleeting smile. “I trust you to know what to do.”

She remembered those words as she changed out of her costume, repeated them over and over as she walked under the watchful moon to the Count’s suite, and sealed them in her heart as Lukin led her into the lion’s den.

 

 

***

La Chambre Rouge was as sombre as it had ever been that night. Bucky knew he should have been writing, but the thought of pandering to Karpov boiled his blood, and he couldn’t bring himself to pick up a pen. Nobody else was in the mood to help him, anyway – Tony and Steve had gone to re-work the backdrops, Bruce was sat morosely at the piano, and Clint was asleep in a booth to himself. The rest of the performers had claimed the other booths, leaving one for Bucky and a glass of whiskey. He wasn’t the only one drinking, but who else would he drink with?

Suddenly, Yelena fell into his lap, her eyeshadow smudged and vodka rolling off her breath. “Oh, Dostoyevsky, why so sad?” she crooned as Bucky tried to push her off. “You think you are the first one she has toyed with and then discarded? She is called the Black Widow for a reason!” She laughed and leant closer, speaking into his ear; “And you are no General.”

Bucky pushed her away a little harder than necessary. Enraged, Yelena threw herself at him, yelling insults in multiple languages as she clawed at the air in front of his face, surprisingly co-ordinated given how drunk she smelled. It wasn’t hard to fend her off, but Bucky was still glad when a strong pair of arms lifted her away.

“Yelena!” It was Clint. “Yelena, knock it off!”

She wrenched herself out of his hold and stormed off. Bucky wondered what she had to be so upset about – one of Kapov’s lackeys had practically been drooling over her every day since they began rehearsals. If she was trying to replace Natasha as the Count’s favourite, Bucky would have been more than happy to help. Even if she had just tried to scratch his eyes out.

Clint looked at him sternly. “Take it from someone who knows,” he said. “Don’t fall in love with someone who can never be just yours.”

Frowning, Bucky wondered if it was Natasha or someone else who had taught Clint that lesson. It made him seem older, and hard to reconcile with the man who thought someone with the name ‘Strange’ could cure his incurable ailments. Perhaps he had hoped, Bucky thought, watching from his lonely booth as Clint descended onto the dark dance floor.

“I have a dance!” he called, and weary heads lifted around the room. “From the brothels of Buenos Aires.”

A spotlight appeared over him, and he clicked his fingers, the sound sharp in the silence. At the piano, Bruce played a single, hard note, signal enough for the other musicians to quietly but quickly take up their instruments.

“It tells the story,” Clint continued, as the sinister melody began to play, “of a prostitute!”

Another spotlight burst into life, bleaching Yelena at the top of the mezzanine steps. She swaggered down them, laughing as a few people whistled and leered, and strode out to the middle of the floor.

“And a man,” Clint said, as she took her position opposite him, “who falls in love. With her.”

The tango was beautiful and terrible. Clint narrated the story, speaking of desire, and passion, then suspicion, followed by jealousy, anger, and betrayal, with every movement made by him and Yelena conveying the story further.

“When love is for the highest bidder, there can be no trust – without trust, there is no love!”

Jealousy, Clint told them, would drive them mad.

Although he suspected the dance was for him, Bucky couldn’t focus on the shadows gliding across the floor. His mind was elsewhere, helplessly caught on the idea of Natasha with Karpov. As the whiskey and the piercing music broke down his self-control, he couldn’t help but imagine how their evening might go: Karpov’s eyes would be upon her face; maybe he rested his hand atop hers; and would his lips –

He stopped himself. The dancers were Clint and Yelena again, still embroiled in tumultuous motion, passion and pain intertwined. Bucky wanted no more of it, grabbing his coat and leaving the club as the music crescendoed. Somehow he knew that the dance would end with Yelena ‘dead’, and Clint swallowed up by the darkness.

“Not us,” he whispered, letting his feet carry him forward in the cold street. “That will not be us.”

 

 

***

The dinner laid out for her by Karpov had been as impressive as he’d promised. A long table had been adorned with all kinds of platters, from cold cuts of meat and bowls of roasted vegetables to a whole roasted boar in the centre, the fat still dripping from the bones. Natasha had eaten enough to satisfy him without overfilling herself, and largely let him steer the conversation: they spoke of Russia, literature, ballet, and the state of the world, but once Karpov started talking about the failings of the Tsar, Natasha saw her opening.

“Is that why you came to Paris? To enjoy a monarchy-free way of life?”

“Perhaps,” Karpov said, smiling knowingly at her. “I wanted to give my fellow countrymen a reason to expand their horizons, and to see that we, like the French, could benefit from reform. The monarchy is nothing more than an ailing symbol of bygone power – new alliances are needed. And some old ones need reinforcing.”

“La Chambre Rouge could do wonders for that,” Natasha said. “Our international clientele is… somewhat lacking, you could say.”

“I can’t say I’m saddened to hear that.”

She frowned. “Why not? Didn’t you just say you were hoping to forge new alliances? Encourage other Russians to visit?”

Karpov chuckled. “My dear, the alliances are already settled, and have been for a long time. What I do with La Chambre Rouge will merely enable others of the same views to make their next move.” He stood from the table, walking around it slowly. “We plan to revolutionise not just Russia, but the whole of Europe, and eventually the world.”

Natasha couldn’t believe what she was hearing; when Karpov beckoned her over to the window, she went, trying to think how she could direct the conversation to better understand what he was saying. “La Chambre Rouge is a cabaret club,” she said, gazing out at the large windmill that marked the place in question. “How could one start a revolution from there?”

“The Bohemians are trying,” he murmured in her ear, “are they not?”

“You don’t strike me as a follower of Bohemian values.”

She felt his chuckle as he pressed up against her back. “How perceptive of you. Truth – an honourable ideal, but it is a poor form of protection, and hardly a kindness where a nation is concerned. Beauty, too, serves no real purpose save to turn men into gibbering idiots too weak to come to their beauty’s defence. And freedom, oh, what chaos freedom brings. A nation needs a leader to reign it in, to show its people they can be safe, like the canary that returns to its cage night after night.”

Swallowing, Natasha said, “But you spoke ill of the Tsar…”

His hand trailed up her arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “The Tsar does not lead,” he said, scathingly.

“And you would?”

“Maybe.” He touched his lips to shell of her ear, his thumb moving aside the strap of her dress.

On the streets below, Natasha saw a figure. He was wearing a worn, dark coat, shabby trousers, and had short brown hair. He was looking straight at her. Even with a fair distance between them, she couldn’t miss the hope in James’ eyes. “What about love?”

“Love,” Karpov murmured as his fingers worked up the skirt of her dress, “is a man’s undoing.” His hand moved up, and that was the final straw.

She grabbed his wrist and twisted it, pulling his arm away from her body and spinning out of his clutches. She backed away, putting space between her and him, and waited to see what he would do.

Karpov rubbed his wrist, staring at her. Seconds later, and a bitter smirk curled his lip. “My, my,” he sneered. “What an interesting thing for a courtesan to know.”

“I know lots of interesting things,” she said, tensing as he slowly advanced on her. She mirrored his steps, moving to maintain the gap she’d made.

“Yes, I’m starting to realise that. Some might say too much.”

Natasha hit the wall too soon. Karpov moved quickly, blocking her against the edge of the ornate fireplace and towering over her.

“Pillow talk,” he said, his tone menacing, “can be lethal. Not just for those involved, but for those they care about, too. All it takes is one spilt secret, and you’ll find your ledger dripping with red.” He grasped her throat, snarling, “For Mother Russia, no?”

Deciding she was no longer in control of the situation, Natasha drove her knee into Karpov’s groin, delivering one punch to his kidney and grinding the bones of his wrist again. When he released her throat, she pushed him backwards and punched him hard in the side of his head, grimly satisfied when he went down in an instant. Ruling out an exit the way she entered, she ran to the window, hoping James would still be in the street. To her dismay, it was empty, but she pushed aside her feelings and took the opportunity she was presented, climbing out onto the ledge to make her way down.

She needed to find Coulson. She had more than enough information.

 

 

***

The cold streets of Paris had offered little reprieve from Bucky’s own thoughts, which, the further he walked, became as gloomy as the sky above him. After ending up at the hotel in which the Count was staying – and seeing Natasha in the window – he’d decided writing an ending he didn’t want to write would actually be preferable to wandering the streets of Paris moping over his situation. He questioned Fury’s choice in sending him here. Bucky’s mission was going terribly – he knew nothing of Karpov’s intentions in Paris, and the closest he’d been able to get to the man had been when they had a loud argument over the play that Bucky had never expected to write, let alone fight over. Any report he could give on Karpov now would be entirely personal, and hardly a legitimate basis for action on Fury’s behalf.

Under his breath, he cursed his Director. He’d had hard missions in the past – long ones that continued way past when Fury assured him they would, deep ones that put his life on a knife’s edge and waited for Fate to tip him one way or the other – but never had Bucky considered abandoning a mission. Walking up to the doors of La Chambre Rouge that night, however, he was beginning to consider it.

“James!”

Bucky turned quickly, opening his arms in time to catch Natasha as she hurtled towards him. “Nat?” She was holding him tightly, breathing hard from running. “What is it?” he asked, holding her at arms’ length. “What’s wrong?”

“Karpov,” she gasped. “He’s – planning something, I don’t know – he talked about Russia, and France, and the Tsar, and a revolution –”

“Whoa, okay, slow down,” Bucky said, squeezing her shoulders. “Take a breather.”

But Natasha shook her head. “I have to find Coulson,” she said. “He’s in danger, we’re all in –” A noise made her stop, and her head whipped around. She was unbelievably tense under his hands, and he seethed at the idea that Karpov had done something to frighten her this much.

“What do you mean we’re in danger?” he asked, trying to stay calm.

Shaking her head, Natasha pushed him away from La Chambre Rouge, linking her arm with his and ducking her head. “We should get inside,” she murmured, offering no other explanation. Bucky went along with it to put her at ease, but when they were inside his apartment he wanted an answer.

“Natasha, please tell me what’s going on.”

She stood in the middle of his single room, hugging herself, and Bucky’s heart twisted. He’d hadn’t seen her look so vulnerable. “Karpov was talking about his plans for La Chambre Rouge,” she began, and the breath caught in Bucky’s chest. “At first, it sounded like he was talking about bringing in more international customers – expatriates, Russians who wouldn’t know what society without a monarch was like. I thought that just meant he was a revolutionary, but then he went on to say things about alliances taking control of Europe, about lying to people – whole nations – for their own good, taking away their freedom –” Natasha paused, blinking hard as she pressed a hand to her mouth.

“Hey,” Bucky said, gently pulling her into an embrace. “It’s okay. It’s okay, he’s not going to hurt you.”

“He will,” she said. “If he finds out I’ve told you –”

“He won’t. We can go to –”

“We can’t go to anyone, James!” Natasha cried, pushing away from him. “Karpov is powerful and he wields an influence greater than we know. He won’t hesitate to hurt anyone who tries to get in his way –”

“So let’s get out of his way.”

Confused, Natasha said, “What?”

It hadn’t been something Bucky planned on saying, but he ran with it. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Out of Paris, out of Europe – somewhere neither of us have ever been before. We don’t have to tell anyone that we’re going. We’ll just… pack the essentials, and get on a train, or a boat, and see where it takes us.”

“James…”

“I know, it’s a little rash, but I think we could do it, Nat. We wouldn’t be telling anyone about Karpov’s plans, and if he doesn’t know where we going, how would he know where to search?”

“But the play – Steve, Clint, Tony –”

“They’re not you.” He cupped her face in his hands, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs. “It’s selfish, yes, but after all we’ve done for everyone else, why can’t we be a little bit selfish?”

For a moment, he thought he’d convinced her. Something in her face was enamoured with his idea, he could tell, and she looked like a child who’d been told they were getting a surprise for their birthday. But Natasha wrapped her fingers around his wrists, holding them firmly as she whispered, “I can’t just abandon the people here, James. They’ve given me so much, and if Karpov’s threatening them because of me, I –” She steadied herself for a second, continuing: “I have to make sure they’re safe, and that means standing by them, not running away.”

The worst part was that Bucky understood, and admired Natasha even more. She was better than him, choosing to face her fears and the danger they now knew existed, and she was doing it because she cared about the people she worked with. The woman who’d told him she could never love anyone putting an entire theatre’s worth of individuals above herself. “Okay,” he said, the word tight in his throat. “We’ll stand together.”

Natasha kissed him. “If you had asked at any other time,” she said quietly, “I might have said yes.”

In an attempt to make light of the situation, he grinned, saying, “So should I book tickets just in case?”

She smiled back, but didn’t answer. “I have to go.”

He hugged her again, wishing he could keep her for longer. “Be safe.”

“I will. You too.”

After he’d watched her leave from his window, Bucky thought he should have given her a jacket, or at least a scarf, to keep her warm on her journey back to the club. He thought over everything she’d told him about Karpov and leant his head on the windowpane, softly banging his fist against the wood. “Damnit.”

 

 

***

The first person Natasha ran into inside La Chambre Rouge was Bruce. When she asked if he knew where Coulson was, he told her he thought he was in his office, and she wasted no time in going there, ignoring Bruce’s cry of “He’s in a meeting!”

“Coulson!” she called, knocking hastily on his door before letting herself in. “Coulson, there’s something I have –”

Aleksander Lukin turned around in his seat. Behind the desk, Coulson, grim-faced, sat up straight. “Miss Romanova,” he said. “Now is not the best time.”

“Au contraire, Monsieur,” Lukin said, rising. “I have conveyed all that I needed to, and would hate to come between you and your star.” He sent what was probably supposed to be a charming smile Natasha’s way, but all she saw was a warning. Reclaiming his top hat from the hat stand, he bowed slightly to Natasha, saying “Mademoiselle,” before passing her on his way out. When the door shut behind him, Natasha could breathe again.

“Coulson –”

“Sit down, Natasha.”

She took the chair Lukin had just vacated. “There’s something you need to know about Karpov.”

“And there’s something you need to know, too,” he said, leaning forward on the desk. Deep lines creased his brow, and when he looked her in the eye she felt her stomach flip. “Karpov worked out that you’re a spy. Lukin just delivered his ‘conditions’ to make sure we don’t sell him out.”

Natasha felt her blood run cold. “What conditions?” she asked, a tremble in her voice.

Coulson rubbed a hand down his face. “He’s far more powerful than we realised. If we upset him badly enough, he could instigate a war between France and Russia to rival Napoleon’s endeavours.” He paused, lips thinning. “He would kill James Barnes, too.”

The news left her numb. She might have already heard Karpov make the threat personally, but he hadn’t specifically mentioned James. He’d sent Lukin to deliver the message to Coulson, but Natasha wondered if that was all that would have happened if she hadn’t returned when she did. “Phil…”

“I’m sorry, Natasha, truly,” he said, moving away from his desk and coming to crouch by her. “But whatever is going on between you and James has to end now, if it hasn’t already. There are more lives at stake than just his, now.”

“He wanted us to leave,” she said, dazed. “Just now, he… I told him what Karpov wants to do, and he was ready to leave everyone behind.” Conflicted, she looked to Coulson. “Would that be the right thing to do?”

Coulson at least gave the idea a brief consideration. “Not for you,” he said, “but maybe for him.”

“You want James to leave?”

“I think it’s the only way to guarantee his safety.”

“No,” she said, laughing brokenly as she shook her head. “No, that’s the last thing he would do, especially if I was staying here.”

“Because he loves you.”

The words made her head spin. “Yes.”

“And if he believed you didn’t love him?”

Natasha froze.

Next to her, Coulson sighed. “This is a horrible situation, I understand that,” he said gently. “But Natasha – if you love this man, if you have any feelings for him at all, then keep him safe.”

“It would break his heart.”

“I know. But it’s necessary. You’re going to have to hurt him, Natasha. Hurt him to save him.”

“Phil, I… I can’t.”

“You can,” he said. “You’ve been a master of manipulation since the day I met you. I’ve seen you convince men twice your age that they mean the world to you.” He put a hand on her knee. “If anyone can save James’ life, it’s you.”

Saving his life…

“I’m not asking you to do it right away,” Coulson continued, straightening up. “In the morning, perhaps, before rehearsals.” She nodded dimly, and he resumed his seat behind his desk. “Now – what did you find out? Lukin wasn’t very forthcoming on the details.”

She told him what she knew as if she was reading from one of the ballet textbooks Ivan had made her read. It was factual, it was succinct, and it reaffirmed what she knew in her heart she had to do. _Save James’ life_. A broken heart for the lives of thousands. It was a cruel price, but one she thought James would agree to pay if he knew the whole story. The fact that she was paying it on his behalf wasn’t lost on her one bit.

 

 

***

The sounds of the typewriter finally quieted a short while after the sun had risen. Bucky groaned, stretching as best he could in his tiny chair, the frame of which felt as if it had permanently re-shaped his back. He pulled out the final page of the newly-typed ending, begrudgingly pleased that he’d managed not to make the General too much of a disgusting character. As he stood up to work the kinks out of his back, there was a knock at his door.

“Hi,” he said, greeting Natasha tiredly. Letting her in, he told her, “You’re just in time – I finished typing up Karpov’s new ending.”

“That’s good.”

He gathered the sheets together, passing them over before rummaging around for a more presentable outfit than an undershirt and dusty trousers. “You can read it on the way to the rehearsal, if you like,” he said. “I didn’t give Clint so many lines, just in case today’s one of his bad days.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Pulling up his suspenders, Bucky laughed. “What, making room for Clint’s narcolepsy?”

“You coming to the rehearsal.”

He stopped short, turning to her. “Why not?” It was then that he noticed how Natasha looked – her hair, normally free-flowing, was pinned up smartly, and she wore a close-fitting coat in a plain grey colour. She stood tall but stiff in Bucky’s doorway, the script held between gloved fingers, her face expressionless. “Is everything okay?”

Natasha looked down. “There’s something you should know,” she said, and Bucky tensed. She met his gaze. “I haven’t been truthful to you.”

Bucky frowned. “About what?”

“About who I am.” When he didn’t say anything, she continued, her tone lifeless; “I’m a spy, James. I was placed at La Chambre Rouge to investigate men who have the power to keep the police and detectives away from their private businesses – and other nefarious activities. We knew that Karpov was coming to Paris for suspect reasons, and I was instructed to get close to him to find out what those reasons might be. When you showed up unannounced at the same time, the order was extended to include you, too.”

He blinked. “The… order?”

“My job,” Natasha said. “Making people tell me what they don’t want others to know.”

It sounded loosely like the pitch Fury had given him years ago. He could hardly believe it. “No,” he said, a laugh dying on his breath. “You – you’re not…”

“The night you came to the elephant wasn’t an accident. Coulson’s plan –”

“Coulson?”

“– was to introduce both you and the Count to me to see if you were connected. When we were interrupted by Steve and the others, our plans were extended and you were moved to a higher priority. I had to determine whether you were a threat or not.”

“A threat?” he repeated, incredulous. “Natasha, this is ridic-”

“My name is Natalie,” she said. “Natalie Rushman.”

Bucky stared at her, trying to read her. He’d found it easy before (or so he’d thought), but now she was a closed book to him. He could see her face but it was nothing more than a mask. “So, everything you told me about your past,” he said slowly, “about Russia, and Coulson finding you, and the ballet. That was all a lie?”

She nodded. “It was.”

“Even you having a child?”

He thought he saw her throat tighten. “I came here to tell you the truth, and something else,” she said.

“You’re dodging the question –”

“Karpov plans to kill you.” Bucky closed his mouth. “That’s why I don’t think you should come to the rehearsal this morning. Your life is in danger, and you need to leave.”

“… Why should I believe you?”

A brief smile flickered over her lips. “I can’t lie to you anymore, James,” she said softly. “I’ve done enough of that already. And I care about you – you don’t deserve to pay for my carelessness.”

“But it’s okay if my heart is broken.”

“Broken hearts heal.”

“Oh, and you’d know?”

“I know that it won’t kill you like a bullet will,” she snapped, and looked away. When she next spoke, her composure was back in place. “You’re a better person than I am, James. I know you won’t risk starting a war for something as childish as false love.”

Bucky barely refrained from flinching. Part of him wondered if he’d fallen asleep at his typewriter and was in the throes of a nightmare, a worst-case, slap-in-the-face scenario. As Natasha bade him a formal goodbye and opened his door to leave, desperation made him say, “What if I told you I was a spy too?” It worked in making her pause, and he carried on. “I can tell you who I work for – he sent me here to spy on Karpov too; that means we’re on the same side.” And that they were equals still.

“If you were a spy,” Natasha said slowly, “I would tell you to go back to whoever sent you and let them know Karpov is being taken care of.”  
It was the final nail in the coffin. “Natasha –”

“Thank you for writing such a wonderful play. I’m sorry your story didn’t end the way you wanted it to.”

His door closed. Outside, the sounds of rain started up against the window. Inside, Bucky waited for the dam to break.

 

 

***

The weather was atrocious, even for this time of year. It was bad enough that Coulson couldn’t see out of his office window, and resorted to opening it in the hopes of having a clearer view of the street below. The rehearsal was underway, with Karpov now directing the scene using Barnes’ revised script (which he’d barely even looked at), and even though Natasha had assured him Barnes had believed what she told him Coulson didn’t want to take any chances. He was disheartened when his caution proved to be worthwhile.

By the time he reached the entrance to La Chambre Rouge, Coulson was fairly wet, despite having an umbrella, a hat, and a coat. He was faring much better than Barnes, however, who stood in a shirt and trousers so drenched it looked as though he’d been dragged from the Seine. “Go home, Mr. Barnes.”

“I just need to talk to her.”

“She’s busy with the rehearsals,” he said. “Going in there now wouldn’t end well for you.”

“Are you really a spy?” he asked, almost shouting over the downpour. “Is she? Because I would have known – I swear, I would have known!”

“Isn’t the point of being a spy that nobody knows you’re a spy?” Coulson returned, and when Barnes opened his mouth he insisted once more, “Go home, Barnes, for your own sake. If Karpov doesn’t kill you, this weather will. Consumption is common in these parts.”

Barnes might have said something in response, but Coulson didn’t hear it, and closed the doors on him for good. He was unsurprised when it sounded as if Barnes was trying to break in, and waited until the banging stopped before returning, with a heavy heart, to his office.

“The show must go on,” he muttered to himself. Hopefully, the end was nigh.

 

 

***

The next few days passed in a dull blur. Bucky was aware of Steve letting himself into his apartment regularly, with pots of soup and stew and other concoctions that would have had Bucky’s stomach clamouring for a taste not so long ago. But with Natasha’s words playing on a loop in his head, basic things – like an appetite, sleep, and a sense of time – became distant memories he couldn’t quite grasp. It wasn’t even as if he was trying to come to an understanding about what had transpired; the same thoughts simply chased themselves around in his head, interrupted occasionally by Steve. It made sense, then, that it was Steve who would stop them for good.

“Get up.”

Bucky jerked in surprise as a bundle of cloth smacked him in the face. He poked at it on his chest as Steve bustled around his room.

“It’s been too long, Bucky,” he was saying. “I know illnesses, and I know that the longer you stay in here not doing anything, the worse you’re going to get – so up and at ‘em. Uh… Where do you keep your comb?”

“My comb?” Bucky said, his voice grating. Tugging at the bundle again made it fall open, revealing a set of clothes that weren’t his and a strangely-shaped hat that looked like the end of a pen. “Steve, what…”

“We’re getting you into La Chambre Rouge.”

Hearing the club’s name sent an ache flaring through Bucky’s chest, and he sighed. “I tried, Steve,” he said. “Coulson said I’d end up dead.”

“Only if someone sees you go inside.” Steve winked.

“I can’t go.”

“Sure you can, jerk.”

“Steve, this isn’t a game.”

His friend stilled in his bustling. Slowly, he made his way over to Bucky’s bed, sitting himself on the edge of the dirty mattress. “I know it isn’t,” he said, and looked Bucky in the eye. “But you need to see her, Buck.”

“Why?” he asked bitterly. “So she can break my heart into smaller pieces?”

“Or fix it. Yeah, yeah, she said she didn’t love you, I heard it all too, remember? But here’s the thing: I don’t believe her. What I do believe is the Natasha I saw when we all came up with that crazy plot together in front of Karpov, and the Natasha I saw every day in rehearsals, and especially the Natasha I saw in my own apartment with you – the Natasha who laughed, and played, and looked at you like you were the goddamn sun.” Sighing, Steve ran a hand through his floppy hair. “I know I can come across as fanciful sometimes,” he said, “but when you have a childhood like I did – not knowing whether you’d see the next day or not – fancy was all I could cling to, sometimes. Fancy and hope. And becoming a Bohemian artist has hardly changed any of that.” He smiled, taking his costume hat from Bucky’s lap. “So, why don’t you call me a punk, and I call you a jerk, and you put this dumb hat on to cover that awful excuse for bedhead so we can go get your girl back?”

Bucky took the hat in his hands. A magical pen sending messages to wherever they could be found. “Hope, huh?”

“Yep.” Steve patted his leg, moving off the bed. “If you ask me, it’s sorely missing from the Bohemian values. What say we put it in there?”

And somehow, minutes later, Bucky found himself outside in some of Clint’s costumed clothes with Steve’s pen hat partially hiding his identity. The light was dimming when they left, and he realised with a jolt that the play would be underway very soon. “Steve,” he said, eyeing up the horde of well-dressed men filing through the club’s doors. “I stick out like a sore thumb like this.”

“Going through the front you might,” Steve said, steering him away. He grinned. “But the back entrance is for performers.”

 

 

***

Even with a front row seat, Karpov could tell that the club-turned-theatre was completely sold out. The red curtains on the stage before him were closed and that only added to the electric atmosphere, the audience eagerly awaiting for the moment when the lights would dim and the fabric would part. He hadn’t imagined he would feel so proud when the moment itself finally came – it was a pleasant surprise.

As was Barnes’ late absence. Neither Dmitri, Arkady, nor Leonid claimed to have taken care of him themselves, so Karpov was left to take it on Coulson’s authority that the boy had, indeed, left Paris. He doubted Coulson or Natalia would have had the ruthlessness to kill him themselves, but it was irrelevant, really. Natalia was his, La Chambre Rouge soon would be, and the greater plan could finally be set into motion.

On his right, Aleksander settled himself into the empty seat. “They’re all in position,” he said, leaning in. “All the actors and dancers are accounted for, and Coulson’s being watched. There’s no sign of Barnes, or anyone else backstage who shouldn’t be there.”

“Thank you, Aleksander,” Karpov said. “I trust you will remain vigilant throughout the show?”

“Of course, my Lord,” he promised as the band began tuning their instruments. A hush quickly engulfed the audience as the room darkened, and the moment the rich curtains twitched, the applause nearly drowned out the band’s opening piece. Karpov relaxed, and reaped his reward.

 

 

***

“Ten minutes,” Bucky grunted, shifting to find a more comfortable position. “How long does he think ten minutes is?”

After sneaking him backstage, Steve had pushed Bucky between two abandoned backdrops and told him to wait while he found Natasha, claiming he’d only be “ten minutes”. Judging by the music, Bucky was pretty sure they were well into the final half of the show, and that both Steve and Natasha were fairly busy.

“Fuck this,” he muttered as his knees creaked, and he slid himself up into a painful standing position, easing out from between the artwork once he was sure the coast was clear. None of the performers at the club hated him – well, most of them didn’t – but he was no longer sure whether he could trust them; if they were working for Coulson (who may or may not have been a spy), there was every chance they would report Bucky the moment they saw him. Or worse, Karpov.

As he moved around, trying to make his way to the dressing rooms, he listened to what was happening on stage. It sounded like Clint and Tony were speaking, acting out the new scene where the General sent the Soldier away for good, and Bucky felt a great sense of sadness. The parallels between his play and his own life were beyond uncanny, and had he been of a holy mind he would have suspected divine intervention – as it was, he felt more like Irony’s punching bag, over-used and splitting at the seams.

Steve was right. He had to find Natasha.

Applause signalled the end of the scene, and the backstage area came to life as the scene and lighting components were rapidly changed. He took advantage of the commotion, hurrying along as if he had somewhere to be, and for a while it seemed to be working. Rounding a corner, however, Bucky came to a sudden halt; one of Karpov’s lackeys stood in the middle of the corridor, and there was no doubt that he recognised Bucky immediately.

“You!” he shouted, quickly advancing.

Panicking, Bucky ran back the way he came. He was good at hand-to-hand combat, but the angry Russian was broader than him and probably equally ruthless. He didn’t want to be bruised beyond recognition if he ever found Natasha (when he found Natasha, a Steve-like voice corrected). He was stunned then, when – on trying to double back and finding himself cornered – he hardly had to raise his fists before the man cried out, clutching his head. Bucky looked around him, and his jaw dropped. “Clint?”

Holding a cupid’s bow and quiver from the play’s first half, in which sat a handful of fake arrows, Clint motioned with his head to the clear corridor behind him. “Go, I got this,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah! I grew up in the circus.”

That explained a lot, Bucky thought, thanking Clint as he passed by. “Hey,” he called before disappearing out of sight, “don’t fall asleep.” Clint fired another arrow, hitting the Russian straight between the eyes. “Clint!”

“I heard you! What do you want me to say – I’ll try?”

Bucky grinned despite himself, and took off down the corridor. The next scene was starting, with Bruce’s new score introducing the Russian palace where the wedding of the General and the Ballerina would take place. He hoped he wasn’t too late, and that Natasha wasn’t already in position.

When he saw finally saw her, his heart stopped.

In honour of the Russian theme, her dress was a vibrant, rich red colour, shaped to fit her body whilst still moving freely around her frame. An elaborate tiara crowned the back of her head, glimmering against the waves of her hair. She waited behind a set of doors that led onto the rear of the stage, her head high, a small bouquet of flowers in her hands. One look at her, and Bucky was breathless.

_I know you won’t risk starting a war for something as childish as false love._

The despair that he’d felt for the last few days hardened in his chest. Before he could think his actions through he strode towards her, the hardness splintering until it broke apart to be replaced by something hot and fierce, and then more than just Natasha’s dress was red.

“James!” she gasped when she caught sight of him. “What are you doing here,” she hissed, “it’s not safe –”

“Why don’t you tell me?” he snapped quietly. “You’re the spy, aren’t you?”

“James, now is not the time –”

“It’s never a good time to break someone’s heart, is it?” he retorted. “But seeing as you’ve been so generous with the truth lately, allow me to repay you in kind.”

Natasha tried to push him away. “Don’t be stupid! You’ll get yourself killed.”

“I’m used to it. Know why? Because I’m a spy too, Natalie,” he said, emphasising the name. “Only my name is really James Barnes, and I did grow up in Indiana. I did have parents and a sister, and they all really died in a plane crash I survived.” He jabbed a finger at his shoulder. “These scars are even real, too.”

“James, please, I truly am sorry –”

“You know what else is true? That I came here to spy on Karpov. And I had no idea that you would be here, or Steve, or Tony, or anyone else I’ve ended up getting acquainted with here. So why would I have bothered going to see you, writing a play for you, trying to steal you away from the man I was supposed to be learning more about, if you were nothing but distraction from my objectives?”

“I am about to go on stage and if Karpov sees you –”

“It’s because I fell in love with you,” he told her, “and that’s the truth, okay? The honest-to-goddamn truth!”

“James!”

“And if you think I’ve accepted –”

“Behind you!”

Bucky turned automatically. Another of Karpov’s lackeys – bigger than the first one – was running towards them. With all the anger rolling through his muscles, Bucky felt more than ready to take him on.

Without warning, something fell onto the man’s head. Hard. He tripped over his own feet, falling unconscious in a way Clint would envy, landing heavily enough to make a small dust-cloud leap up around him. Shocked, Bucky tipped his head back.

On the catwalk above, he could see a slim, blonde-haired figure looking down over the railings with an equally surprised expression. Steve recovered quickly though, grinning at Bucky and giving him a small salute. Bucky even found himself grinning back.

“James.” Natasha gripped his arm. “Go. Now.”

“No,” he said, holding her wrist in return. “Not until you make me believe it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Say you never loved me.”

“We can do this later –”

“Say it.”

“James, please –”

“Tell me you don’t love me!”

“– my wonderful bride!”

Blinding light stunned them both as the door to the stage was opened. Bucky raised a hand to shield his eyes, slowly realising that he was on full display in front of the entire audience, and that somewhere in that audience was Vasily Karpov. He saw the confusion in the actors’ faces first, Tony looking back and forth between them and the audience as if he was working out who to address.

“Ah,” he said eventually, still in character. “Soldier! You have returned… in disguise!”

Enough was enough. Losing the ability to care about his predicament, Bucky strode onto the stage. The entrance to La Chambre Rouge was across the now-carpeted dancefloor, down a single aisle in the middle of the audience seating area. Only a few steps, and he would be gone for good – no antagonising Karpov, no ruining Natalia’s, or Natalie’s, big moment on stage.

“And you are going somewhere!” Tony said as he stormed past. “Back to your mission?”

“James.” Natasha’s hand closed around his shoulder. “Stop this –”

“No, you stop this!” He shrugged her hand off harshly, turning to face her in the centre of the stage. “Stop messing with my head; stop twisting every memory I have of you, and just tell me the truth.”

Stricken, she looked out at the crowd. A whisper or two reached Bucky’s ears, but he ignored them, wanting only to hear Natasha’s answer. But the longer he waited – putting his life at risk in the process – the quicker his anger began to dissolve back into the despair he’d grown familiar with.

“Fine,” he said, defeated. “I’ll do as you asked. You’ll never see me again.” Taking two steps away from her he paused, a self-deprecating laugh forcing its way up from his sternum. “You were right,” he said over his shoulder. “Children are adaptable.”

There was utter silence, even from Tony, as Bucky stepped down from the stage. He drew from the quiet, emptying his own mind as he made for the doors of La Chambre Rouge one final time, holding his head as high as he could. Not even the sounds of something crashing onto the stage behind him was enough to make him pause.

“The greatest thing you’ll ever learn,” Steve cried, “is just to love, and be loved in return!”

He finally got it right. Bucky’s lips twitched. If only the words weren’t so wrong.

“Her name was Rose!”

His last footfall was lost under the echo of Natasha’s words. All the heads that had followed his progress down the aisle now turned back to stage, and Bucky’s resolve faltered enough for him to do the same.

Natasha stood at the edge of the platform, tall and beautiful. Every pair of eyes in the room was on her, and despite the presence of so many strangers, of co-workers and friends – of Vasily Karpov – she told Bucky, “After losing her I never wanted to love anyone ever again.” She took a deep breath. “Until you.”

Bucky’s heart stopped. He was vaguely aware of the entire audience once more turning collectively to look his way, but they were background details. Everything was – the palace set, the actors and dancers, the hall – except for Natasha.

“I love you, James Barnes.”

The audience gasped. Some of them sounded like they believed this was all part of the show, their reactions excited rather than shocked. Nobody knew where to look – and Bucky?

“Rose,” he said. Looking up at Natasha, he smiled. “That’s a lovely name.”

There couldn’t be anything false about the expression on Natasha’s face when he started to walk back towards the stage. It was one he’d seen – genuine, he knew without a doubt now – and one he wanted to see until his dying day.

A man in the front row stood up. “Leonid!” he bellowed. “Arkady, Dmitri – somebody get here now!”

“He has a gun!” someone else shrieked, and the stage burst into chaos. The performers swarmed over the edge, ballerinas and soldiers all scrambling to get away from what they knew was a real threat. The audience laughed, enjoying what they thought was a dramatic ending, and Bucky spared little thought for them as he tried to get to the stage and Natasha.

“Coulson!” he heard her shout, and turned in time to see the man launch what looked like a sandbag in Leonid’s direction. As Leonid crumpled, Aleksander Lukin surged to his feet, aiming a punch Coulson’s way. Bucky ignored the fight, and concentrated on reaching Natasha.

“We have to go!” he said over the chaos, fleetingly surprised to see a gun in her hand.

She nodded, saying “This way!” and taking his hand and leading him to the back of the stage. All of a sudden there was a sharp cry, and she turned before they had taken three paces. Her grip on him tightened. “Phil!” she called, letting go of Bucky and running back the other way.

“Nat!”

The gunshot silenced everything. He watched in horror as Natasha’s body jerked, her hands flying to her waist, her legs buckling underneath her. Moving fast, he caught her before she fell, lowering her to the ground as carefully as he could. A hole had appeared in her dress, and the red material around it was growing a shade darker.

“You fool!” Karpov screamed.

Bucky grabbed Natasha’s gun, holding it level at the Russian Count. He noted that Lukin had Coulson in a tight hold, a knife glinting at his throat. At his side, he heard Natasha’s breathing hitch.

“Oh, now this is entertaining!” Karpov laughed, sounding much more like Tony’s portrayal of the General. “The lovesick writer, coming to the defence of his wounded whore!” He spread his arms. “Are you really a killer, Barnes? Could you live with yourself if you pulled the trigger?”

“I’d be happier living in a world without you in it.”

The crazed man laughed again. “Finally, Barnes,” he said. “Something we agree on.”

What happened next could only have been an act of divine intervention. A prop hammer flew through the air to hit Lukin squarely in the head, throwing him away from Coulson and into a row of chairs, which toppled under the impact. Simultaneously, Bruce appeared out of nowhere, a guitar-like instrument in his hands which also made a solid connection with Karpov’s head, sending him sprawling over the steps leading up to the stage. Bruce stood with the broken instrument handing from his hand, breathing heavily, as Coulson cautiously approached him.

But Bucky had lost interest the moment Karpov went down; the gun clattered to the stage floor as it slipped out of his fingers, his attention going entirely to Natasha. “Stay calm,” he said, pressing down on the wound in her side. “It’s alright, I’m right here,” he said as she whimpered. “I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

“James,” she gasped as someone shouted for a doctor. A shudder ran through her body.

“I know,” he murmured, pressing down harder and hoping she didn’t notice the way his hand shook. “It’s okay, you’re going to be alright – help’s on the way. I just need you to stay with me Nat, yeah? Stay focused, keep your eyes open.” She grimaced, but nodded. “Did I ever tell you my sister’s name? It was Rebecca. Not as pretty as Rose, I know, but my parents gave me the middle name Buchanan, so what do they know, huh? We used to introduce ourselves as Bucky and Becca, and this old lady who lived next door to us was always getting confused, and she’d call us Bucky and Becky instead. Becca hated being called that… Nat?”

Her eyes were drifting shut.

“No no no,” he said, “not yet – keep them open, stay here. Stay focused, yeah? Come on, look at me. Look at me, Nat, open your eyes. Don’t – don’t do this to me, please…” The blood was spilling out over his fingers. “Nat, come on, wake up.” He gave her a shake. “Nat?” She was so still against him. “Nata… Natasha?”

 

 

***

_Paris, 1900_

Digging his fingers into his eyes, Bucky inhaled deeply and let the breath out as slowly as possible. He could no longer smell the remains of his cigarette, the end having stopped smouldering God knew how many pages ago. He had expected to feel relieved to finally reach the end of the report, but all he felt now was… tired. Tearing the last page from the typewriter, he began scanning it for any glaring errors or parts that didn’t make sense. Of course, there were some parts of the report where that just wasn’t possible. Bucky had been there himself, and he was still unsure how to make the simultaneous take-down of Lukin and Karpov seem like anything other than an extraordinarily well-timed miracle. “Do you think Fury’ll believe me about Karpov and Lukin going down at the same time?”

From the bed, a sleepy sigh was his answer. “Do you mean the part where a Norwegian aristocrat expertly wielded the first thing he could grab to help us, or the part where Bruce broke a sitar over Karpov’s head?”

He chuckled. “Both.”

“He’ll have to. It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

Dropping the paper back onto the desk, Bucky stood up and stretched, smiling. “It is.” As the first specks of sunlight tried to illuminate the decrepit city outside, chasing away the last remnants of a long, difficult winter, he lifted up the thick blankets on his bed and climbed underneath, carefully fitting himself around the body already there. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Natasha blinked up at him, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. She snuggled back against his body, humming contentedly as he laid a gentle kiss on her temple. “Is it all done?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said into her hair. His fingers drifted down over her abdomen, unbidden, finding the bandage that was still wrapped around her waist.

She laced their fingers together. “I’m fine, James.”

“I know,” he murmured, holding her a little tighter to remind himself. “It was just hard having to relive it again.”

Natasha repositioned herself underneath him, a flicker of pain running over her features before she settled. She reached a hand to his cheek, smiling softly. “It’s a part of us, now. We can give it to who we want.”

Bucky lowered his head to kiss her, slowly and sweetly, relishing the fact that they could finally do so as if they had all the time in the world – no sneaking around, no lying to people, and no hiding who they were. Not anymore, and not ever again. “Where would you like to go?” he asked, playing with a strand of her hair. “When you’re recovered, I mean.”

“Hmm…” Her eyes tipped thoughtfully to the ceiling, her index finger tapping her lips. “Somewhere warm,” she said, and raised an eyebrow. “South America?”

“Alright,” he agreed, kissing her on the nose. “But let’s avoid Argentina – Clint didn’t exactly sell me on Buenos Aires.”

She laughed, guiding him down for another kiss, and Bucky let the greyness around him disappear. All that mattered to him now was that, whatever the season, whatever the weather, and wherever they were in the world, he loved Natasha, and she loved him – come what may.

**Author's Note:**

> Coincidentally, there's a great [_Moulin Rouge!_ AU gifset](http://buckynatgifs.tumblr.com/post/142439311888/buckynatgifs-buckynat-moulin-rouge-au-james) that appeared on the same day! 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and enjoy the rest of BuckyNat Week 2016! :D


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